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FANTASTIC ADVENTURES 




You Build These and Many Other 
Radio Circuits with Kits I Supply 



i. E. SMITH 
President 

National Radio Institute 
Our 30th Year of Training 
Men for Success in Radio 



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Name Age.... 

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t Trained 
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MAY, 1945 Cover by Pete Kuhlhoff 

NOVELETTES 



THE MAN WHO CRIED "WOLF!” ® 

Who can mistake those called by the moon, shaggy shadows 
in the night runnitig on all fours 

THE SHINING LAND . Edmond Hamilton 30 

Through the glowing, unearthly haze was an island below them — 
in an ocean that had no islands! 

SHORT STORIES 

THE WATCHERS . Ray Bradbury 21 

Men have spent lifetimes trying to discover who are the '■'watchers^’ 
and who the "^watched” 

THE LEGEND OF 228 Harold Lairlor 42 

There was someone living on the 4th floor of the old deserted 
frame house — someone or something 

THE LOST DAY August Derletfa 52 

What nagged him was a consuming curiosity about yesterday, 
that therein lay something he should know 

THE ULTIMATE PARADOX Thorp McCIusky 58 

Universal force obeys certain laws — incredible to us — 
but laws nonetheless 

THE MUSIC-BOX FROM HELL Emil Petaja 68 

By an evil rearrangement of his vibratory pattern the listener is swept 
irresistibly into the Black Limbo of unspeakable consequences 



BLOOD FROM A STONE ... Blanly Wade Wellman 73 

Somewhere a gray gowned figure is at work — deadly work, you can 



be sure, for the figure is a Shonokin! 

WELCOME HOME! Charles King 81 

The last place a fanatic witch-breaker would look for 
mystic nonsense would be his own home 

VERSE 

THE WITCH William DeLisIe 67 

SUPERSTITIONS AND TABOOS Irwin J Weil! 51 

THE EYRIE AND WEIRD TALES CLUB 91 



Except for personal experiences the contents of this magazine is fiction. Any use 
of the name of any living person, or reference to actual events is purely coincidental. 



Published bi-monthly by Weird Tales, 9 Rockefeller Plaza, New York 20, N. Y. Reentered as second-class mattCT 
January 26, 1940, at the Post OfSce at New York, N. Y,, under the act of March 3, 1879. Single copies, 15 cents- 
Swhseription rates: One year in the United States and possessions, 90^, Foreign and Canadian postage extra, 
English Office : Charles Lavell, Limited, 4 Clements Inn, Strand, London, W.G.2, England, The publishers are not 
responsible for the loss of unsolicited manuscripts although every care will be taken of such material while in their 
possession. Copyright, 1945, by Weird Tales. Copyrighted in Great Britain, 173 

Title registered in U. S. Patent Office. 

IN THE H. S. A. ' Vol. 38, No. 5 



D. MCILWEAITH, Editor. 



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T he moon had just come up. It was 
shining across the lake, and when 
Violet came in it cast a silver web 
iover her hair. 

But it wasn’t moonlight that slione in sul- 
len pallor from her face. It was fear. 
"What’s biting you,^” I asked. 

"A werewolf,” said Violet. 



I put down my pipe, got up out of the 
armchair, and went over to her. All the 
while she kept staring at me; standing and 
staring like a big china doll with glass eyes. 

I shook her shoulders. The stare went 
away. 

"Now, then,” I said. 

"It was a werewolf,” she whispered. *T 



O She was half Indian and half goddess — but wholly evil! 

ososososo^ 

€ 



By ROBERT BLOCH 



heard it following me through the forest. 
Its paws .padded over the twigs behind me. I 
was afraid to look back, but I knew it was 
there. It kept creeping closer and closer, 
and when tire moon came up I heard it howl. 
Tlren I ran.” 

"You heard it howl.^” 

"I’m almost positive.” 

"Almost!” 

Her eyes dropped into hiding, beneath 
lowered lashes. She bent her head and sud- 
den color flamed in her cheeks. I kept 
watehing her and nodded. 

"You heard a wolf howling near the 
cabin?” I insisted. 

"Didn’t — you — ” she got out, in a stran- 
gled wheeze. 



I shook my head, slowly and firmly. 
"Please, Violet. Lefls be sensible. We've 
been over this thing half a dozen times in 
the past week, but I’m willing to try again.” 
I took her by the hand, quite gently, and 
led her to a chair. I gave her a cigarette and 
lighted it for her. Her lips shook and it 
wobbled in her mouth. 

"Now listen, darling,” I began. "There 
are no wolves here. Wilds of Canada or not, 
they haven’t seen a wolf in these parts for 
twenty years. Old Leon down at the store 
v/ill bear me out on that. 

"And even if, by some strange chance, a 
stray has wandered dov^n here from the 
north, skulking around the lake, that doesn’t 
prove anything about a werewolf. 











s 



WEIRD TALES 



"You and I have enough common sense 
to be above such silly superstitions. Try to 
forget your Canuck ancestry and please re- 
member that you’re now the wife of an ex- 
pert in the field of legend.” 

That crack about Canucks was pretty bru- 
tal, but I wanted to shock her out of the 
mood. 

It had the opposite effect. She began to 
tremble. 

"But, Charles, surely you must have heard 
something?” she sighed. Her eyes were 
pleading now. I had to look away. 

"Nothing,” I murmured. 

"And when I've heard it prowling around 
the cabin at night, you heard nothing?” 

"Nothing.” 

"That night I woke you — didn’t you see 
its shadow on the wall?” 

I shook my head and forced a smile. "I’d 
hate to think you’ve been reading too many 
of my stories, darling,” I told her. "But I 
don’t know how to explain your — er — ^mis- 
taken notions.” 

V IOLET puffed on her cigarette and the 
glowing tip flared up. But her eyes 
were dead. 

"You have never heard this wolf? It has 
never followed you in the woods? Not while 
you were up here alone?^’ Her voice en- 
treated. 

“I’m afraid not. You know I came up 
here a month ahead of you to write. And I 
wrote. . I saw no werewolves, ghosts, vam- 
pires, ghouls, jinns or efreets. Just Indians 
and Canucks and other citizens. One night, 
after coming home from Leon’s piace, I 
thought I saw a pink elephant, but it was a 
mistake.” 

I smiled. She did not smile with me. 
"Seriously, Violet, I wonder if I made a 
mistake, having you up here. But I thought 
it would be like a bit of old times for you. 
After all, to a French-Canadian girl, this 
wilderness should be a treat. But now, I 
wonder — ” 

“You wonder if I’m insane.” 

The words crawled from between her 
lips. 

"No,” I muttered. "I never said that.” 
"But that is what you’re thinking, 
Charies.” 

"Not at all. We all get these — spells. Any 



medical man will tell you that errors of per- 
ception do not necessarily indicate any — 
mental unbalance.” 

I spoke hastily, but I could see she was 
not convinced. 

“You can’t fool me, Charles. And I can’t 
fool myself, either. Something is wrong.” 
"Nonsense. Forget it.” I put the smile 
back on my face, but it didn’t seem to stick 
very well. "After all, Violet, I should be the 
last one to even hint at such a possibility. 
People who live in glass houses, you know. 
Don’t you remember, before we were mar- 
ried in Quebec, how I used to speak of you 
as a witch? I called you the Red Witch of the 
North, and I used to write those sonnets 
and whisper them to you.” 

Violet shook her head. “That was differ- 
ent. You knew what you were doing. You 
didn’t see things, hear things that do not 
exist.” 

I cleared my throat. "I’m going to make 
a suggestion to you, dear. You haven’t told 
anyone besides me about this, have you?” 
"No.” 

"And it’s been going on, you say, about 
two weeks?” 

"Yes.” 

“Well, I don’t want it to go on any 
longer. I can see that you’re worried. For 
that reason, and for that reason only — re- 
member — ^I recommend that we call in Dr. 
Meroux. Purely as a consultant, of course. 

"I have a lot of faith in his ability, not 
only as a physician but as a psychiatrist. You 
know psychiatry is his hobby— of course, 
he’s only an amateur stuck away here in the 
woods, but he’s a man of repute. I’m sure 
he’d respect your confidences. And he might 
be able to make a diagnosis that would clear 
the whole matter up in a jiffy.” 

“No, Charles. I will not tell Dr. Me- 
roux.” 

I frowned. "Very well. But I’m inter- 
ested in your ideas about a mysterious were- 
wolf. I’d like to find out what you heard 
about loup-garous in childhood. That grand- 
mother of yours — she was part Indian, 
wasn’t she? Didn’t she ever scare the day- 
lights out of you with some wild yarns?” 
Violet nodded. "Out — ^yes, I mean.” 

I noted her reversion to the speech of her 
childhood, but pretended to ignore it. 

"Did she tell you about the wolf -men, the 



THE MAN WHO CRIED “WOLF” 



9 



lycanthropes . . . who change their shape 
when the moon calls and run baying on all 
fours, their bodies shaggy shadows in the 
night? Did she tell you how they prowl for 
prey, tearing at the throats of their victims 
who in turn become inocculated with the 
dread virus of the werewolf?” 

''Yes. She told me, many many times.” 

"Ah. And now, when you return to the 
wilderness, the image of your childhood 
fears arises. The werewolf, my dear, is 
merely a symbol of something you dread. 
Some inner guilt, perhaps, is personified in 
the hallucination of a beast-presence that 
lurks awaiting the time to reveal itself. 

"I’m not even an amateur psychiatrist 
like Dr. Meroux, but I think I can safely 
hazard that such a delusion is natural 
enough. Now, if you’ll be frank with me, 
perhaps we can dissect the nature of your 
fear, arrive at the real terror that disguises 
itself a snarling monster, a mythological hy- 
brid that slavers at your neck in the for- 
est — ” 

"No! Stop! Please, not now — cannot 
stand to talk of it further.” 

Violet sobbed. I comforted her, crudely. 

"Sorry. I imagine you’re nervous enough 
as it is. We’ll just forget about it for the 
time being, dear, and wait until you feel 
that you can face the problem. Better get 
some rest.” 

Patting her shoulder, I led her to the bed- 
room. . 

We undressed, got into bed. I dimmed 
the lamp, extinguished it. 

The cabin was in utter darkness, save for 
the filtered moonlight that trickled through 
surrounding tree-tops. The lake beyond was 
a sea of silver fire, but I turned from its ra- 
diance and sank into sudden slumber. 

Violet lay tense beside me, but as I drifted 
off I felt her relax, gradually and slowly. 

We slept. 

I do not know what time it was that I 
awoke. Violet’s hand bit into my shoulder, 
and I heard the harsh inspiration of her 
breath. 

"Listen, Charles!” she gasped. 

I listened. 

"Do you hear that? Outside the cabin — 
hear it scuffling against the door?” 

I shook my head. 

"Wake up, Charles — you must hear it. 



It’s been snaffling around under the window 
and now it’s scraping at the door. Do some- 
thing! ” 

I swung out of bed, grabbed her arm. 

"Come on,” I said. "Let’s talce a look.” 

I banged into a chair searching for the 
flashlight. 

"It’s going away,” Violet sobbed. 



"Hurry.” 

Flash firmly gripped in one hand, I 
dragged Violet across the floor towards the 
door. I halted, released her, snapped the 
lock free. 

The door flung open. I swung the flash- 
light in a wide arc. The forest clearing 
about the cabin was empty of all life. 

Then I tilted the beam down towards our 
feet. 

Violet screamed. 

"Look, Charles! There, in the earth out- 
side the doorway! Don’t you see the tracks 
— the tracks before the door?” 

I looked. 

There, clearly defined in the earth at our 
feet, were the unmistakable paw-prints of 
a gigantic wolf. 

I turned to Violet and gazed at her a 
long time. Then I shook my head. 

"No, dear,” I whispered. "You’re mis- 
taken. I don’t see anything. I don’t see any- 
thing at all!” 



II 



T he next morning Violet stayed in bed 
and I went down towards town to see 
Lisa. 

Lisa lived near the crossroads with her 
father. The old man was paralyzed, and 
Lisa supported him by doing Indian bead- 
work and basketry for the tourist trade. 

That’s how I’d met her, last month when 
I came up alone. I stopped by the roadside 
stand, intending to purchase a bracelet to 
send to Violet. 

Then I saw Lisa, and forgot everything 
else. 

Lisa was half Indian and half goddess. 
Her hair was black. You couldn’t imag- 
ine a deeper, more lustrous darkness — ^until 
you gazed into her eyes. They were two 
oval windows opening upon Night. Her 
face and features were delicately moulded in 
faintly burnished copper. Her body was 



iO 



WEIRD TALES 



slim and strong, but strangely melting vvhen 
clasped in an embrace. 

I found that out very soon. Two days 
after I met her, in fact. 

I hadn't meant to be so precipitate. But 
Lisa was half Indian and half goddess. 

And she was all evil. 

Evil as the night that perfumed the sable 
■Splendor of her hair . . . evil as the gulf- 
deep gaze of her eyes . . . the very pagan 
perfection of her body was instinct widr the 
substance of sin. 

She offered me the bittersweet corruption 
of that ancient and forbidden fruit known 
to Lilith. She came to me on moonless 
night, silent as a succubus, and I feasted on 
night and darkness. 

"When Violet came up, our meetings 
halted. I told Lisa that we must be careful, 
and she merely laughed. 

‘Tor a little while, then,” she agreed. 

"A little while?” 

Lisa nodded, her eyes sparkling. "Yes. 
Only as long as your wife remains alive.” 

She said it quite naturally. And after a 
moment I realized that it was quite a natural 
remark to me. Because it was true, logical. 

I did not want Violet any more. I wanted 
this other thing — this thing that was not 
love nor lust, but a wedding of my soul with 
an utter wickedness. 

And if I would have it, then Violet must 
die. 

I looked at Lisa and nodded. "Do you 
want me to kill her?” I asked. 

"No. There are other ways.” 

"Indian magic?” 

A month ago I would have snickered at 
the mere suggestion. But now, knowing 
Lisa, holding Lisa, I knew the suggestion 
was quite valid. 

“No. Not exactly. Suppose your wife 
did not die. Suppose she had to go away?” 

"You mean if she left me— got a di- 
vorce?” 

"You do not understand, I see. Is it not 
true that there are places where they keep 
tire insane?” 

"But Violet isn’t crazy. She’s quite level- 
headed. It would take something very ex- 
traordinary to drive her mad.” 

"Lilce seeing wolves?” 

"Wolves?” 

"A wolf will follow your wife. It will 



plague her, torment her, haunt her when 
she is alone. She will come to you for ex- 
planations, for help. You must refuse to 
believe her. In a little while her mind — ” 

Lisa shrugged. * 

I asked no questions. I merely accepted 
what she told me. If Lisa v/ent to the woods 
and consulted the shamans, or whispered 
prayers to darker dispensers of doom, I did 
not know. 

All I know is that a wolf came to follow 
my wife. And I pretended not to hear any- 
thing, see anything. It was working as Lisa 
predicted. Violet was going mad. From 
somewhere she had acquired the notion that 
her nocturnal nemesis was a werewolf. So 
much the better. Her mind v/as going, fast. 

And Lisa was waiting, smiling her secret 
smile. 

Lisa waited for me this morning, in the 
little roadside stand near the crossing. 

H ere in the sunlight she looked like a 
sim.ple Indian bead-worker. Only when 
her face was veiled in shadov? did I see her 
eyes and hair, black and unchanging as her 
secret self. 

She put her hand on my arm, and a touch 
of ice and fire shivered up my spine. 

"And how is your wife?” she whispered. 
"Not so well. Last night she found wolf- 
tracks beside our door. She had hysterics.” 
Lisa smiled. 

"She thinks it’s a werewolf, you- know.” 
Lisa smiled. 

"I wish you’d tell me tlie truth, darling. 
How do you make the wolf come and fol- 
low her?” 

Lisa smiled. 

I sighed. “I suppose I shouldn’t be too 
inquisitive.” 

"That is right, Charles. Isn’t it enough 
to know that our plan is working? That 
Violet is going mad? That soon she will 
be gone and we can be together — always?” 
I stared at her. "Yes, tliat is enough. But 
tell me, what happens next?” 

"Your v/ife will see the wolf. Actually 
see it. She will become quite frightened. 
You will refuse to listen to her, as before. 
Then she will go to the authorities. She will 
come to the village here and try to make 
people believe her. Everyone will think her 
mad. And when they ask you, you know 



THE MAN WHO CRIED “WOLF” 



11 



nothing. In a short time the doctor will be 
forced to examine her. After that — ” 

"She will see the wolf?” I echoed. "Ac- 
tually see it?” 

"Yes.” 

"When?” 

"Tonight, if you like.” 

1 nodded, slowly. Then a doubt came. 
"But she’s almost overcome. She’ll be too 
afraid to walk in the woods.” 

"In that case, the wolf will come to her.” 
"Very well. I shall erase the tracks, just 
as I erased them this morning.” 

"Yes. And you had better plan to go 
away from the cabin tonight. You are a 
sensitive person, Charles. You would find 
it painful to endure die sight of your wife’s 
terror.” 

The image of Violet came to me — the 
image of her frightened face, her bulging 
eyes, her wide mouth opened in a scream of 
utter fear as the monster of her fancies 
crouched before her. Yes, that is how it 
would be, and very soon. 

I smiled. 

Lisa grinned back. As I turned away I 
could hear her laughing, and it came to me 
tliat there was something unnatural in her 
mirdi. 

Then, of course, I realized the truth. Lisa 
was not altogether sane herself. 

Ill 

W E ATE dinner in silence that evening. 

As the moon came up over the lake, 
Violet rose and pulled the shades wdth a 
grimace she could not conceal. 

"What’s the matter, dear? Is it tqo bright 
for your eyes?” 

"I hate it, Charles.” 

"But it’s beautiful.” 

"Not to me. I hate the night.” 

I could afford to be generous. "Violet, 
I’ve been doing a little thinking. This place 
— it’s getting on your nerves. Don’t you 
believe it might be helpful if you went back 
to the city?" 

"Alone?” 

"I could join you there when I finish my 
work.” 

Violet brushed a lock of auburn hair 
from her forehead. I noticed with a shock 
how the fire had faded from her curls. The 



luster was gone; her hair was dead and dull. 
Just as her face, her eyes, were dead and 
dull. 

"No, Charles. I couldn’t go alone. It 
would follow me.” 

"It?” 

"The wolf.” 

"But wolves don’t come to the city.” 
"Ordinary wolves, no. But this one — ” 
"Why do you think this wolf you — uh — 
see is not ordinary?” 

She caught my hesitation but desperation 
overrode all reticence. She went on, hur- 
riedly. 

"Because it comes only at night. Because 
there are no real wolves here. Because I can 
sense the evil of the beast. It is not stalking 
me, Charles — it is haunting me. And me 
alone. It seems to be waiting for something 
to happen. If I went away, the creature 
would follow. I can’t escape it.” 

"You can’t escape it because it’s in your 
mind,” I snapped. "Violet, I’ve been very 
patient. I’ve neglected my work to take care 
ct you. I have listened to your fancies for 
two weeks now. 

"But if you can’t help yourself, then 
others must help you. I took the liberty this 
afternoon of discussing your case with Doc- 
tor Meroux. He wants to see you.” 

She crumpled physically before my direct 
accusation and statements. 

"Then it’s true,” she gasped. "You do 
think I’m — out of my mind.” 

"Werewolves don’t exist,” I said. “I 
find it easier to believe in the presence of a 
mental aberration than that of a supernat- 
ural entity.” 

I rose. 

Violet looked up, startled. 

"Where are you going?” she whispered. 
"Leon’s,” I told her. "I need a drink. 
This affair plays the devil with my nerves.” 
"Charles. Don’t leave me alone — to- 
night.” 

"Afraid of imaginary wolves?” I asked, 
gently. "Now really, my dear! If you want 
me to retain any faith in your mental sta- 
bility, you’d better show me that at least 
you can be trusted to stay by you»‘self a few 
hours without collapsing.” 

"Charles — ” 

I went to the door, opened it. She winced 
as the moonlight trickled across the floor in 



12 



WEIRD TALES 



a silver pool. I stood there, smiliog at her. 

"Violet, I feel that I’ve been most patient 
with you. But if you will not see a doctor, 
insist upon staying here, and refuse to admit 
that you’re mentally upset — then prove it.” 

I turned, went out, slammed the door, and 
walked briskly down the path. 

It was a beautiful night and I inhaled 
deeply as I swung along towards the cross- 
ing a mile ahead. 

Impatience set the pace for me. I was in 
a hurry to reach my destination. Actually, I 
had no intention of visiting Leon’s tavern. 

i went to Lisa. 

Lisa’s little cabin was dark, and I won- 
dered if she had retired. Her aged father 
was already asleep, I knew. There would 
be no trouble from that source. 

As I approached the cabin, I had already 
determined to arouse her, should she be in 
bed. A night like this was not meant for 
slumber. 

A SUDDEN sound arrested me a short 
distance from the doorway. The door 
was opening, slowly. Instinctively I stepped 
back into shadow as a figure emerged from 
the cabin. 

“Lisa!” I whispered. 

She turned, came towards me. 

"So you had the same idea,” I murmured, 
taking her in my arms. Come on, let’s get 
away from here. We’ll go ' down towards 
the beach.” 

Silently, she walked beside me as I led 
her along the path that led to the water. 

We stood staring up at the moon for a 
long moment. Then, as my arms tightened 
about her waist, Lisa turned to me and shook 
her head. 

"No, Charles. I must go now.” 

"Go?” 

"I have errands at the crossroads.” 

"Let them wait,” 

I cupped her face, bent to kiss her. She 
drew away. 

"What’s the matter, Lisa?” 

"Let me alone!” 

"Is there something — ^wrong?” 
"Nothing’s wrong. Go away, Qiarles.” 
I really stared at her, then. And staring, 
sav/. Saw that her face was unnaturally 
flushed, her eyes overly luminous, her lips 
parted more in protest than in passion. 



She wasn’t looking at me. She was look- 
ing through me, looking at the moon behind 
my body. Twin moons were mirrored in 
her eyes. They seemed to expand, enlarge, 
then replace red dark pupils with globes of 
silver fire. 

“Go away, Charles,” she muttered. "Go 
— quickly.” 

But I didn’t go. 

It isn’t every day that one has the unusual, 
opportunity to witness the spectacle of lycan- 
thropic metamorphosis. And I was watching 
a woman turn into a wolf. 

The first indication came in the form of 
respiratory change. Her breathing turned to 
panting; the panting to hoarse gasps. I 
watched her bosom rise and fall, rise and 
fall, rise and fall — and change. 

Her shoulders sloped forward. The body 
did not stoop, but seemed to grow outcvard 
at a slant. The arms began to telescope into 
the shoulder sockets. 

Lisa had fallen to the ground now: she 
writhed partly in shadow and partly in 
moonlight. But the moonlight no longer 
gleamed against her skin. The skin was 
darkening, coarsening, putting out hairy, 
tufts. 

Hers was an agony akin to that of par- 
turition — and in a sense, it was parturition. 
She was giving birth, not to a new soul but 
to another aspect of her own. Agony and 
action alike vcere purely reflex. 

It was fascinating to watch her skull 
change shape— as though the hands of an 
invisible scultpure were kneading and 
moulding the living clay, squeezing the very 
bony structure into new conformations. 

The elongated head seemed miraculously 
shorn of curls for a moment, and then the 
fine fur sprang up, the ears flared outward, 
the pinkish tips twitched along a thickened 
neck. 

Her eyes slitted upward, w’hile the fea- 
tures of the face convulsed, then converged 
into a protuberant muzzle. The grimace of 
involuntary rictus bcvame a snarl, and fangs 
jutted forth. 

Her skin darkened perceptibly— so that 
her image was akin to that on an over- 
developed photographic print "coming up” 
in the hypo bath. 

Lisa’s clothing had dropped away, and I 
watched the melting of the limbs as they 



THE MAN WHO CRIED “WOLF” ^3 



foreshortened, furred, and flexed anew. The 
hands that had pawed the earth in agony 
now became paws. 

The whole process occupied about three 
and a half minutes. I know, because I timed 
it w'ith my watch. 

Oh yes, I timed it carefully. I suppose I 
should have been frightened. But it is not 
given to every man — this opportunity of 
seeing a woman turn to a wolf. I regarded 
the transformation witli what might well be 
called professional interest. Fascination pre- 
cluded the presence of fear. 

Now the metamorphosis v/as complete. 
The wolf stood before me, poised and pant- 
ing. 



O F COURSE, I understood. Understood 
why Lisa had few friends, why she 
spent so many evenings alone, vdiy she had 
urged me to go away — and v/hy she could 
so confidently predict the movements of 
the phantom wolf. 

I stood there and smiled. 

The feral eyes searched mine imploring- 
ly. I suppose she had expected me to ex- 
hibit shock, dread, or at the least a definite 
repulsion. 

My smile was an unexpected answer. A 
whimper rose in the furry throat, changed 
to almost a purr. She was reassured now. 
"You’d better go,” I whispered. 

Still she hesitated. I reached down and 
patted the lupine brow, still clammy from 
the pangs of transmutation. "It’s all right,” 
I said. "I understand, Lisa. You can trust 
me, you know. And it doesn’t make any 
difference in my feelings about — the two of 
us.” 

The purring subsided deep in the great 
wolf’s shaggy breast. 

"You’d better hurry now,” I coaxed. 
"Violet is all alone. You promised to sur- 
prise her.” 

The gray beast turned and padded off 
into the forest behind. 

. I walked down to the lake and watched 
the moonlight play over the water. 

All at once the delayed emotional re- 
action came. Everything was clear — too 
dear. 

I was in league with a girl to drive my 
wife mad. The girl herself was not wholly 
sane. And now I had learned she was a 



werewolf. Perhaps I was a little crazy my- 
self. . 

But there it was. I couldn’t think of an 
answer. I couldn’t back down now. Things 
would go on according to plan. And in the 
end I’d get what I wanted. Or — ^vmuld I? 

Suddenly I began to sob. 

It wasn’t remorse, and it wasn’t self-pity 
and it wasn’t fear. It was merely a thought 
that came to me — the thought of holding 
Lisa in my arms and feeling her change; of 
kissing Lisa’s red lips and suddenly find- 
ing, pressed against my mouth, the leering 
muzzle of a wolf. 

My sobs were cut short by the far-off, 
mocking howl from tire depths of the v/oods. 

I put my hands over my ears and shud- 
dered. 

IV 

A ll at once I found myself running 
through the woods. I couldn’t hear any 
howling, but the sound of my own gasps 
roared in my ears. I ran madly, blindly, 
tearing my face and hands as I careened 
toward the cabin. 

The place was dark. I panted towards 
the door, tried it and found it locked. 

Violet screamed from within, and I was 
glad to hear her. At least she v/as — ^alive. 

For the thought had come to me sud- 
denly. 

Werewolves not only frighten . . . they 

km. 

So her screams was welcome, and when I 
opened the door she ran sobbing into my 
arms; and that was welcome, too. 

"I saw it!” she whispered. "It came to- 
night, peered into the window. It was a 
wolf, but the eyes were human. They stared 
at me, those green eyes — and then it tried 
to open the door — it was howling — I think 

I fainted — oh Charles, help me — ^help 
»> 

me — 

I couldn’t go through with it. I couldn’t 
carry out my plans in the face of her utter 
terror. Instead I took her in my arms and 
whispered what I could to comfort her. 

"Yes, dear,” I murmured. "I know you 
saw it. Because I saw it too, in the woods. 
That’s why I came. And I heard it hov/ling, 
too. I know' now that you w-ere ri.ght — there 
IS a wolf. 



14 



WEIRD TALES 



"A werewolf,” she insisted. 

“A wolf, anyway. And tomorrow I’ll go 
down to the crossroads and we’ll get up a 
party and find the beast.” 

She smiled at me, tlien. She couldn’t con- 
trol her trembling, but she managed to 
smile. 

"There’s nothing to be afraid of, dar- 
ling,” I told her. "I’m here with you now. 
It’s all right.” 

We slept that night in each other’s arms, 
like frightened children. 

And that’s just about what we were, at 
that. 

It was past noon when I awoke. Violet 
was calmly preparing breakfast. 

I rose and did things to my haggard face 
w'ith a razor. The food was ready when I 
sat down, but I couldn’t eat much. 

"The tracks are all around the cabin,” 
Violet told me. Her voice didn’t waver as 
she spoke — my belief gave her strength. 

“All right,” I answered. "I’m leaving 
for the crossroads now. I’ll tell Leon, Doc- 
tor Meroux, some of the boys. Perhaps I’ll 
go to the Mountie Headquarters if I can get 
a ride over there.” 

"You mean you’ll join the hunt?” 
"Certainly. I’m going to be in at tlie kill. 
It’s the least I can do — or I’d never forgive 
myself for misjudging you.” 

She kissed me. 

"You won’t be afraid of staying alone, 
now?” I asked. 

"No. Not any more.” 

"Good.” 

I left. 

I did a lot of thinking during my walk 
to the crossroads. But my meditations were 
rudely interrupted when I walked into 
Leon’s tavern at the crossroads and de- 
manded a drink. 

Fat Leon was talking to little Doctor 
Meroux down at the end of the bar. His 
arms were flying and his eyes were rolling, 
but when he saw me he halted and came up 
tc where I was standing. He leaned across 
the bar and stared. 

"Ah, Meestaire Colby, it is good to see 
you.” 

’"Thanks, Leon. Been pretty busy lately 
— couldn’t get in here very often.” 

"Is it at your cabin that you have been 
busy?” 



Again the stare. I hesitated, bit my lip. 
Why should I hesitate to ansv/er? 

"Yes. My wife hasn’t been feeling so 
well, and I’ve spent most of my time with 
her.” 

"It is lonely where you are, eh?” 

"You know how it is,” I shrugged. 
“Why?” 

"Nothing. It is merely that I wondered if 
you chanced to hear anything these nights.” 
"Hear anything? "What could I hear? 
Frogs and crickets, and — ” 

"Wolves, perhaps?” 

I blinked. Fat Leon stared at me. 

"Have you heard the iiowl of le loup?’‘ 
he whispered. 

My head shook. I hoped he was watching 
that instead of my trembling hands. 

"Strange. One would think that across 
the lake the cries would echo.” 

"But there are no wolves around here — ” 
"Ah!” breathed Leon. "You are mis- 
taken.” 

"How do you know?” 

"Do you remember Big Pierre the guide 
— that dark one who lives across the lake 
from you?” asked Leon. 

"Yes.” 

"Big Pierre left yesterday with a party 
bound for the river. His daughter, Yvonne, 
stayed behind to tend to the cabin. She was 
alone in the night. It is because of her that 
we know about the wolf.” 

"She told you?” 

"She did not tell us, no. But this morn- 
ing the good Doctor Meroux chanced to 
pass her door and paused to bid her good 
day. He found her lying in the yard, Le 
loup attacked her in the night, may her soul 
rest in peace.” 

"Dead!” 

"Assuredly. One does not like to think 
of it. Doctor Meroux lost the tracks in the 
forest, but when Big Pierre returns he will 
hunt the beast down, yes.” 

Doctor Meroux edged along the bar, his 
mustache fairly bristling with excitemient. 

"What do you thinlc of that, Charles? A 
renegade wolf loose in this territory — a 
killer. I’m going to notify the Mounted 
Police and see that a warning is given. If 
you could have seen that poor girl’s body — ” 
I downed my drink and turned away hast- 
ily. 



THE MAN WHO CRIED “WOLF” 



15 



"Violet!” I muttered. “She’s all alone. 
I must get back to her.” 

I hurried out of Leon’s tavern, half-ran 
down the sunlit street. 

N OW I knew where Lisa had gone after 
she left Violet. Now I knew that 
werewolves do more than change their 
shape. 

I swung towards her roadside stand. It 
was closed. Abandoning caution, I hastened 
towards her door. The only response to my 
knocking was the querulous mumble of the 
paralytic old man within. 

But as I turned away, the door swung 
open. Lisa stood there, blinking against the 
sunlight. She was pale, drawn, and her hair 
hung loosely down her bare back. 

"Charles — what is it?” 

I pulled her over to the shade of the trees 
behind the house. She stood there, staring 
up at. me, her face haggard and her eyes 
dull with fatigue. 

Then I slapped her, hard. She jerked, 
tried to dodge, but my other hand gripped 
her shoulder. I hit her again. She began 
to whimper softly, like a dog. Like a wolf. 

I hit her again, with all my might. I felt 
a choking sensation in my throat and the 
words wouldn’t come clearly. 

"You little fool!” I muttered. “Why did 
you do it?” 

She wept. I shook her fiercely. 

“Stop that! You thinic I don’t know about 
last night? Well, I do. And so does every- 
body around here. Why did you do it, Lisa?” 
Then she understood, and knew that she 
could not hope to deceive me. 

“I had to,” she whispered. "You don’t 
know what it’s like. After I left your wife 
at the cabin I went back around the lake. It 
was then that it — came over me.” 

"What came over you?” 

"The hunger.” 

She said it simply. 

“You can’t understand that, can you? The 
way the hunger comes.. It gnaws at your 
stomach and then it gnaws at your brain, so 
that you cannot think. You can only — act. 
And when I passed Big Pierre’s cabin, 
Yvonne was at the well, drawing water in 
the darkness. I remember seeing her there 
and then — I forget.” 

I shook her until her teeth rattled. , 



"You forget, eh? Well, the girl’s dead.” 
"Thank le bon Dieu!” Lisa breathed. 

I gasped. “You thank God for — that?” 
“Certainly. For if she did not die — if she 
survived the bite of one like myself — she 
would become such an unfortunate being 
as I am.” 

"Oh.” I scarcely whispered the word. 
“Don’t you understand? These things I 
do are not of my choosing. It is the hunger, 
always the hunger. In the past when I felt 
the — change — coming, I went far away so 
that no one would know. But last night the 
hunger came swiftly and I could not help 
myself. Still it is better that she is dead, 
poor child.” 

“That’s what you think,” I muttered. 
“Except for one slight detail. It ruins our 
plans.” 

"How so?” 

“My wife won’t be frightened by 
thoughts of an imaginary wolf any more. 
When she comes babbling of a haunting 
beast, no one will think her crazy. Every- 
body knows that there is a wolf, now.” 

"I see. What do you propose?” 

“I propose nothing. We’ll have to let 
matters rest.” 

Her arms were around me, her bruised 
face pressed to my own. "Charles,” she 
sobbed. "You mean we won’t be together — ” 
"How can you expect that, after what 
you did?” 

"Don’t you love me, Charles?” 

She was kissing me now, and her lips 
were soft. It was not the kiss of a wolf but 
the warm, vibrant kiss of a lovely woman. 
Her arms were soft. I felt myself respond- 
ing to her embrace, felt against the incred- 
ible crescendo of desire this girl could rouse 
in me. And I weakened. 

“We’ll think of something,” I told her. 
"But you must promise me — ^what happened 
last night will never happen again. And 
you must not go near my wife.” 

“I promise.” She sighed. "It is a hard 
thing to keep, that promise. But I shall do 
my best. You will come to me this evening, 
no? Then we can be together, and I will 
have you to protect me from my-— hunger.” 
"I’ll come to you tonight,” I said. 

Her eyes flickered with sudden fear. 
"Charles,” she whispered. “You had bet- 
ter come before the moon rises.” 



16 



WEIRD TALES 



V 

W HEN I got back to the cabin, Violet 
was waiting for me outside the door. 
"Have you heard?” she said. 

"How do you know?” I parried. 
"There’s a man here to see you. He told 
me. He asked me about the wolf, and I 
mentioned what has been happening lately. 
He’s in there now, waiting for you.” 

"You told him,” I said. "And he wants 
to see me.” 

"Yes. You’d better go in alone. His 
name is Craigin, and he’s v/ith the Mounted 
Police.” 

There was nothing else to do but go in- 
side. 

I had never met a member of the North- 
west Mounted Police before. Except for his 
uniform, Mr. Cragin might have been a big 
city copper. He had the manner and the 
mind. 

"Mr. Charles Colby?” he said, rising from 
the armchair as I entered. 

"Yes sir. What can I do for you?” 

'T think you know. It’s about the death 
of that little Yvonne Beauchamps, across 
the lake.” 

I sighed. "They told me at the cross- 
roads. Wolf, wasn’t it? Wanted to know 
if I’d seen any signs of one.” 

"Have you?” 

I hesitated. That was a mistake. 'The big 
man in uniform looked up at me and smiled. 

"It doesn’t matter. Anyone who bothers 
to take a look around this cabin will see 
wolf-tracks galore. Matter of fact, there’s a 
trail leading from here right around the lake 
to the Beaucliamps place. I followed it from 
tliere this afternoon.” 

I couldn’t say anything. I tried to light a 
cigarette pj'id wished I hadn’t. 

"Besides,” said Cragin, "I’ve been talking 
to j-'our wife. She seems to know all about 
this w'olf.” 

"Really? Did she tell you she saw one 
here last night?” 

"She did.” Cragin stopped smiling. "By 
the way, where were last night when the 
wolf appeared?” 

"I was in town.” 

"At the tavern?” 

"No. Just walking.” 

'"Walking, eh?” 



The dialogue was far from sparkling, bat 
it held my interest. I could see Cragin was 
leading up to something. And he did. 

"Let’s drop that angle for a moment,” 
he suggested. "I have all the facts in the 
case anyway. Just checking now to see if 
we can discover the habits of this renegade. 
We’re getting up a hunting party, you know. 
Don’t suppose you’d be interested in joining 
it — out of your line, isn’t it?” 

I said nothing. 

"Well, isn’t it?” he repeated. “You’re a 
writer.” 

I nodded. 

'Tm told you do a lot of yarns about the 
supernatural. You just finished one about 
some kind of invisible monster, your wdfe 
says.” 

I nodded again. It was easy enough to 
keep nodding. 

Cragin stood up, casually. "Do you ever 
get any funny ideas?” he asked me. 

“Meaning?” 

"Seems to me that an author like yourself 
would natm'ally be a little bit — different. If 
you’ll pardon my saying so, I’d imagine that 
a man who writes about mon.sters must get 
a pretty queer slant on a lot of things.” 

I GULPED, but covered it up with a quick 
grin. "Are you inferring that when I 
write a story about a monster it’s part of my 
autobiography?” I asked. 

That wasn’t exactly what he expected. I 
followed through. 

"What’s the matter with you?” I drawled. 
"Do you think I look like a vampire?” 
Cragin forced a laugh. “It’s my business 
to be suspicious. Let me see your teeth be- 
fore I answer.” 

I opened my mouth and said, "Ah!” 

He didn’t like that, either. 

I saw' my advantage and seized it. 

"Just w'hat are you driving at, Cragin?” 
I demanded. “You know that m^y v/ife has 
seen a wolf around here. You know^ that 
it appeared last night. You know' that it left 
here and apparently w'ent around the lake, 
killed the girl, and disappeared. 

"We’ve given you all the information you 
wanted. Unless, of course, you have a vague 
idea that I might be some kind of a monster 
myself. Maybe your scientific police theory 
points to the notion that I change myself 



THE MAN WHO CRIED “WOLF” 



11 



into a wolf, frighten my wife, and then go 
out and murder a victim in the dark.” 

I had him on the ropes now. 'Tm not 
used to you backwoods Dick Tracy charac- 
ters,” I said. "Of course I knew that some 
of the half-breeds around here believe in 
ghosts and werewolves and demons, but I 
didn’t think members of the Mounted Police 
adopted such superstitions.” 

"But really, Mr. Colby, I — ” 

My hand was on the door. I pointed, 
smiling pleasantly. "My advice to you, sir, 
is to go chase your wolf.” 

He took it, and departed. 

I sat down and allov/ed myself the luxury 
of a good sweat as Violet came in. 

For the first time, I was behaving sensibly. 
My direct attack had certainly dispelled any 
vagrant notions Cragin might have har- 
bored. I had shamed him out of any faith 
he might possess in the element of truth be- 
hind Averewolf-whisperings. 

I decided to follow it up by doing the 
same- for Violet. Casually, I recounted the 
details of our interview. 

She listened in silence. 

"Now, dearest, you see the truth,” I con- 
cluded. "The wolf is real enough — but it’s 
only a wolf. You thought it might be some- 
thing more, because it exhibited intelligence. 
Doctor Meroux tells me that renegades like 
that are used to human beings and are much 
more cunning. 

"But when it killed, it killed like an ani- 
mal. It’s a wolf and nothing more. Tonight 
tliey’ll hunt it down and you can rest easier.” 
Violet put her hand on my arm. 

"You’ll stay here?” .she asked. 

I frowned.’ 

"No. I’m going back to the crossing and 
join the hunting party. I told you I would 
last night. And it’s a point of honor with 
me to be in on the kill.” 

“I wish you wouldn’t — I’m frightened — ” 
"Lock the doors. A vrolf can’t unbolt 
locks." 

"But—” 

"I’m going hunting. Believe me, you’ll 
be safer if I’m away tonight.” 

VI 

T he moon had almost risen when I came 
to Lisa under the trees behind her door- 
way. 



She stood there in shadow, and something 
caught at my throat as I realized, with re- 
lief, that a woman waited for me and not a 
wolf. 

Her smile reassured me, as did her quick 
caress. 

"I knew you’d come,” she said. “Now we 
can be together. Oh, Charles, I’m afraid.” 

"Afraid?” 

"Yes. Haven’t you heard? That Cragin 
— the Mounted Policeman — he has been 
talking. He came to see me today and asked 
if I knew anything about the wolf. Leon, 
down at the tavern, has been gossiping like 
an old wmman about the way I go out at 
night. And he has been carrying tales of 
w'ere wolves.” 

"You needn't worry,” I soothed. Briefly, 
I repeated the substance of my interview 
w'ith Cragin. 

"But they are hunting tonight,” Lisa in- 
sisted. "Leon has closed his place, and most 
of the men are following Cragin. They left 
at dusk, to go around the lake. They will 
start from Big Pierre’s cabin and try to track 
down the wolf.” 

"Why should that worry you?” I re- 
sponded, smiling. "There is no wolf. To- 
night you and I will be together.” 

"That is right,” Lisa answered. "I ani 
safe as long as I’m with you.” She gestured 
me towards the bluff beyond the trees. 

"Shall we sit here and talk?” she sug- 
gested. "Leon is closed, but I w'ent there 
earlier in the day and bought some wine. 
You like wine, don’t you, Charles?” 

She produced a jug and we sprawled on 
the grass. 

The wine was sweet but strong. As the 
moon rose in the east, I drank. 

Suddenly she gripped my shoulder. 

"Listen!” 

I heard it from far away — far away across 
the lake. The faint yelling of human voices 
intermingled with a shrill, monotonous yap- 
ping. 

"They’re hunting, and they have 
hounds.” 

Lisa shuddered. I drank deeply, drew her 
close*-. 

"There’s nothing to fear,” I comforted 
her. Nevertheless, as I stared at Jthe sky I 
felt a rising fear; rising in proportion to the 
increased clamor from across the lake. 



WEIRD TALES 



iS 

They were hunting a werewolf — and she 
was in my arms. 

Lisa’s proud pagan profile was limned 
against the pale and half-gnawed face of the 
moon above. 

Moon face and girl face, staring at each 
other. And I, staring at both. . . . 

When ye moon waxeth, so doth ye ac- 
cursed taint in ye veins of ye iverewulf — 

"Lisa,” I whispered. "Are you all right?” 

“Of course, Charles. Here, drink!” 

"I mean, you don’t feel as if something 
is going to happen to — ^you.” 

"No. Not tonight. I’m all right. I’m 
with you now.” 

She laughed and kissed me. I drank to 
drown the dread I could not drive away. 

“You won’t bother Violet again? You’ll 
stop prowling by night until this dies 
down?” 

"Yes, of course.” She held the bottle up 
to my lips. 

“You’ll be patient? You’ll wait until I 
can think of another plan?” 

"Whatever you say, lover.” 

I FACED her. “It may take time. Per- 
haps we can’t be together as quickly as 
I’d planned. There may be no way out ex- 
cept divorce. Violet’s strict about such things 
and she’ll fight. The legal angle might take 
several years to work out before I was free. 
Can you stand waiting that long?” 
"Divorce? Years?” 

"You must promise me that you'll wait. 
That you won’t harm Violet or — anybody. 
Otherwise we can’t go on together.” 

She faced me, face in shadow. Then 
she bent lov/ and sought my lips with her 
mouth. 

"Very well, Charles; if that is the only 
way, I can wait. I can wait.” 

I dranlc again. Everything was very clear. 
Then it blurred. Then it was clear again. 
Yapping of hounds roared in my ears, then 
faded into a distant buzzing. Lisa’s face 
loomed large, then swam out of sight. 

It was the wine, but I didn’t care. I had 
Lisa’s promise, and Lisa’s lips. I couldn’t 
stand the tension any longer. These last few 
days had been perpetual nightmare to me. 

I drank my fill of lips and wine. 

Some time later, I slept. . , . 

’’Wake up!" 



The, voice rasped urgently in my ears. 
Suddenly I was being cuffed on the neck. 
"Wake up, Colby! Hurry!” 

I opened by eyes, sat up. The moon was 
high overhead, and its pallid rays fell upon 
the face bending towards mine — the face of 
Doctor Meroux. 

“Sleeping,” I muttered. "Where’s .Lisa?” 
"Lisa? Nobody’s here but yourself. Wake 
up, man — come with me.” 

I rose, lurched a moment, regained my 
balance. 

"You all right?” 

"Yes, Doc. What is it?” 

"I don’t know if — ” 

There was indecision in his voice and a 
hint of dread. I caught the hint, held it. 
Suddenly I was sober and shouting. 

“Tell me. Doctor. What has. happened?” 
"It’s your wife,” he said, slowly. "The 
wolf came to your cabin tonight while you 
were away. I happened by and stopped in 
to see if everything was all right. When I 
arrived the wolf had already departed. 
But — ” 

"Yes?” 

“The wolf had torn Violet’s throat!” 

VII 

W E RACED in darkness, in a black blur 
born of the night without and the fear 
within. 

Lisa had lied. She had given me wine, 
waited until I slept, and then struck — 

I could think of nothing else. 

We reached the cabin. Doctor Meroux 
knelt beside the bed where Violet lay. She 
turned and smiled at me, weakly. 

"She’s still alive?” I gasped. 

"Yes. Her throat was torn, but I arrived 
and stopped the bleeding. It isn’t too se- 
rious, but she’s been badly frightened. Keep 
her quiet for a day or so.” 

I knelt beside my wife, pressed my lips 
to her cheek above the bandaged neck. 
“Thank .God for that,” I whispered. 
"Don’t question her,” Meroux advised, 
"Let her rest now. Evidently I arrived just 
after the attack. The wolf m.ust have come 
in through the window. You’ll notice the 
shattered glass. When I came near it bolted 
out again and scampered off. The tracks 
are all around.” 



THE MAN WHO CRIED “WOLF’’ 



19 



I walked outside the cabin with him. It 
was as he said. 

"The hunting party will be here shortly,” 
he told me. "They can pick up the trail 
easily enough now, I think." 

Inodded. 

Suddenly the baying sounded from the 
forest. The voices of frantic men blended 
with the equally frenzied irlulations of the 
dogs. 

Doctor Meroux tweaked his mustache and 
turned. "They must have found it!” he 
cried. "Listen!” 

Shouts and and murmurs. Sounds of 
scrabbling in the underbrush. A shrill cry. 
And then — 

A volley of rifle shots. 

"Norn de Dieu! They have it!” the doc- 
tor exulted. 

Baying of hounds, closer now. Running 
footsteps snapped twigs in the brush be- 
yond. Voices sounded near. 

And then, out of the clearing before the 
cabin, crawled the vcolf. 

T he great gray beast was panting, spent. It 
dragged its broken body across the open 
space, leaving a black trail of blood. The 
huge head was lolling, fangs agape, and it 
wheezed painfully as it made its way toward 
us. 

Meroux pulled out a revolver, cocked it. 
I held his hand. 

"No,” I w'hispered. "No!” 

I walked toward the wolf. Its eyes met 
mine, but they held no recognition — cmly 
the glaze of descending death. 

"Lisa,” I whispered. "You couldn’t wait.” 
The doctor didn’t hear my mutterings, 
but the wolf did. The head jerked up, and 
for a moment a strangled sound issued from 
the shaggy throat. 

Then the wolf died. 

I saw it die. That was simple enough. Its 
paws stiffened, the head came down, and the 
wolf lay prone. 

I could stand watching the wolf die. 
What came next v^as not so easy to en- 
dure. 

For Lisa died. 

When I had witnessed the change from 
woman to wolf, I coldly timed it w'ith my 
watch. 

Now, watching the transformation of 



wolf to w'oman, I could only shudder and 
cry out. 

The body expanded, writhed, flexed. The 
ears sank into the skull, the limbs elongated, 
put forth white flesh. Dr. Meroux was 
shouting beside me, but I couldn’t hear what 
he said. I could only stare as the wolf-form 
vanished and Lisa’s nude loveliness burst 
into view like a blossoming flower — a pale 
white lily of death. 

She lay there, a dead girl in the moon- 
light. I sobbed and turned away. 

"No — it cannot be!” 

The doctor’s harsh voice recalled me. He 
pointed with a palsied finger at the white 
form at our feet. 

I stared and saw — another change! 

This change I cannot bear to describe. I 
can only remember, now, that Lisa had 
never told me just how or when she had be- 
come a victim of lycanthropy. I can only 
remember that the feast of the werewolf 
preserves an unnatural youth. 

For the woman at our feet aged before 
our eyes. 

Woman to wolf — such a metamorphosis 
is hideous enough to behold. But more 
shocking still was this final abomination. 
The lovely girl became a raddled hag. 

And the hag became — ^worse. 

At the end, something incredibly old lay 
lifeless on the ground. Something wrinkled 
and shrivelled gaped up at the moon with a 
mummy’s grin. 

Lisa had assumed her rightful shape at 
last. 

T he rest must have happened very 
swiftly. The men came, with the dogs. 
Dr. Meroux bent over the thing that had 
been wolf and woman, and now was neither. 
I fainted. 

When I awoke the following afternoon, 
Dr. Meroux was dressing Violet’s wound. 
She was well enough to be up, and she 
brought me some soup. I slept again. 

The following morning Meroux came 
again. I felt strong enough to sit up, and to 
question him. What he had to report reas- 
sured me. 

Apparently, Dr. Meroux had been wise. 
He had confirmed the werewolf story, but 
he did not identify the dead creature as Lisa. 
With Cragin’s help, the matter was being 



20 



WEIRD TALES 



hushed up. After all, there was no point in 
any further investigation. For the sake of 
local policy, it was best for all concerned to 
let it drop. 

Violet was almost her old self again. 

Last night I made a full confession to 
her. 

She only smiled. 

Perhaps, when she is rested, she will re- 
turn to the city and divorce me. I do not 
know. She had not offered forgiveness, nor 
any comment. She seems restless, perturbed. 

Today she went out for a walk. 

I have been sitting all afternoon, typing 
out this account. I imagine now, since the 
sun had set, that she will return. Unless she 
had already slipped off quietly to the city. 
Still, with that wound still half-healed, she 
probably wouldn’t travel yet. 

The moon is coming up across the lake, 
but I don’t want to look at it. I can’t seem to 
bear any reminder of what happened. By 
writing this, I hope to cleanse myself of the 
memories. 

Perhaps I can find a measure of peace in 
the future. I’m sure now that Violet hates 
me, but she will get her divorce and I shall 
carry on. 

Yes. She looked as if she hated me. Be- 
cause I sent a werewolf to kill her — 

But I’m rambling. I mustn’t think of 
that. No. 

And yet I have to think of something. I 
don’t want to stop writing, yet. Then I’d 
be forced to sit here alone, while the night 
comes down like a dark shroud over a dead 
earth. 

Yes, I’d have to sit here and listen to the 
stillness. I’d have to watch the moon rising 
over the lake, and wait for Violet to return. 

I wonder where she has v/andered today? 
With that wound in her throat, it isn’t good 
for her to be out. 

That wound in her throat — where Lisa 
bit her. 

There’s something I’m trying to remem- 
ber about that. I can’t seem to think clearly. 
But I know I’m trying to recall a point about 
her w'ound. It all ties in with my fear of the 
moonlight and being alone here. 

What is it? 

Noiv I knoiv! 

Yes. I remember. 



And I pray that Violet has wandered off, 
that she does not come back. 

She was restless today, and she went oft' 
alone in the v/oods. I know w^hy she left. 
The wound is working. 

I RECALL what Lisa said w*hen I told her 
that little Yvonne had died. She thanked 
God — because if Yvonne had survived her 
bite, she too would have become a . . . 

Violet was bitten. Violet didn’t die. Now 
the wound is working. And the moon is 
high, high over the lake. Violet, running 
through the forest, is a . . . 

- There! Outside the window — I can see 
her! 

I can see — it. 

It is creeping tow'ard the cabin as I write. 
I can see it in the moonlight; the moonlight 
that glistens on the sleek fur along its back. 
'The moonlight is gleaming on the black 
snout, too, and on sharp, pointed fangs. 
Violet hates me. 

Violet is coming back. But not as — a 
w'-oman. 

Wait! Did I lock the door? Yes. 

Good. She can’t enter. Look at her paw- 
ing at the outside of the door. Scratching. 
And whining, deep in her throat. That 
throat — those jaws! 

Perhaps Cragin will come, or Dr. Mer- 
oux. If not. I’ll spend the night sitting 
here. In the morning she wdll go away. 
Then, when she shows up again I can 
have her put away. 

Yes, I’ll wait. 

But listen to that howling! It gets on my 
nerves. She knows I’m in here. She can 
hear me typing. She know's. And if she 
could get at me — 

She can’t. I’m safe here. 

Now what is she up to? She isn’t at the 
door any more. I can hear those paws pad- 
ding, moving around under die window, 
The windoiv. 

The pane of glass was shattered when 
Lisa came the other night. There is no glass 
in the window — 

She’s howling. She’s going to leap in. 
Yes. 

I see it now . . . the body of a leaping 
wolf against the moonlight ... Violet . . , 
no . , . Vio . , . 



Wey/r 

/Catchers 

*f When did you last kill a fly? Yes, you! Have a care .... and listen! jn 



I N THIS room the sound of the tapping 
of the typewriter keys is like knuckles 
on wood, and my perspiration falls 
dov/n upon the keys that are being punched 
unceasingly by my trembling fingers. And 
over and above the sound of my writing 
comes the ironical melody of a mosquito 
circling over my bent head, and a number of 
flies buzzing and colliding with the wire 
screen. And around the naked filament- 



skeleton of the yellow bulb in the ceiling 
a bit of torn white paper that is a moth flut- 
ters. An ant crawls up the wall; I watch it — 
I laugh with a steady, unceasing bitterness. 
How ironical the shining flies and the red 
ants and the armoured crickets. How mis- 
taken we three were: Susan and I and Wil- 
liam Tinsley. 

Whoever you are, w'herever you are, if 
you do happen upon this, do not ever again 



By RAY BRADBURY 




Heading by BORIS DOLGOV 



21 



:22 



WEIRD TALES 



crush the ants upon the sidewalk, do not 
smash the bumblebee that thunders by your 
window, do not annihilate the cricket upon 
your hearth! 

That’s where Tinsley made his colossal 
error. You remember William Tinsley, cer- 
tainly? The man who threw away a million 
dollars on fly-sprays and insecticides and ant- 
pastes? 

There was never a spot for a fly or a mios- 
quito in Tinsley’s office. Not a white wall or 
green desk or any immaculate surface where 
a fly might land before Tinsley destroyed it 
with an instantaneous stroke of his magni- 
ficent flyswatter. I shall never forget that in- 
strument of death. Tinsley, a monarch, ruled 
his industry with that flyswatter as a scepter. 

I was Tinsley’s secretary and right-hand 
man in his kitchenware iniistry; sometimes 
I advised him on his many investments. 

Tinsley carried the flyswatter to work with 
him under his arm in July, 1944. By the 
week’s end, if I happened to be in one of the 
filing alcoves out of sight when Tinsley ar- 
rived, I could always tell of his arrival when 
I heard the swicldng, whistling -passage of 
the flyswatter through the air as Tinsley 
killed his morning quota. 

As the days passed, I noted Tinsley’s pre- 
occupied alertness. He’d dictate to me, but 
his eyes would be searching the north- 
south-east-west v/alls, the rug, the bookcases, 
even my clothing. Once I laughed and made 
some comment about Tinsley and Clyde 
Beatty being fearless animal trainers, and 
Tinsley froze and turned his back on me. I 
shut up. People have a right, I thought, to 
be as damned eccentric as they please. 

"Hello, Steve.’’ Tinsley waved his fly- 
swatter one morning as I poised my pencil 
over my pad. "Before we start, would you 
mind cleaning away the corpses.” 

Spread in a rumpled trail over the tliick 
sienna rug were the fallen conquered, the 
flies; silent, mashed, dewinged. I threw 
them one by one in the waste-fin, muttering. 

"To S. H. Little, Philadelphia. Dear 
Little; 'S^vill invest money in your insect 
spray. Five thousand dollars — ” 

"Five thousand?” I complained. I stopped 
writing. 

'Tinsley ignored me. "Five thousand dol- 
lars. Advise immediate production as soon 
as war conditions permit. Sincerely.” Tin- 



sley twisted his flyswatter. "You think I’m 
crazy,” he said. 

"Is that a p.s., or are you talking to me?” 
I asked. 

the phone rang and it w'-as the Termite 
Control Company, to whom Tinsley told me 
to write a thousand-dollar check for having 
termite-proofed his house. Tinsley patted 
his metal chair. "One thing I like about my 
offices — all iron, cement, solid; not a chance 
for termites.” 

He leaped from his chair, the swatter 
shone swiftly in the air. 

"Damn it, Steve, has THAT been here all 
this time!” 

Something buzzed in a small arc some- 
where, into siience. The four walls moved 
in around us in that silence, it seemed, the 
blank ceiling stared over us and Tinsley’s 
breath ached through his nostrils. I couldn’t 
see the infernal insect anywhere. Tinsley 
exploded. "Help me find it! Damn you, 
help me!” 

■'Now, hold on — ” I retorted. 

Somebody rapped on the door. 

"Stay out!” Tinsley’s yell was high, afraid. 
"Get away from the door, and stay away!” 
He flung himself headlong, bolted the door 
with a frantic gesture and lay against it, 
wildly searching the room. "Quickly now% 
Steve, systematically! Don’t sit there!” 

Desk, chairs, chandelier, walls. Like an 
insane animal, Tinsley searched, found the 
buzzing, struck at it. A bit of insensate glit- 
ter fell to the floor where he crushed it with 
his foot in a queerly triumphant sort or 
action. 

He started to dress me down but I 
wouldn’t have it. "Look here,” I came back 
at him. "I’m a secretary and right-hand 
stooge, not a spotter for high-flying insects. 
I haven’t got eyes in the back of my head!” 

"Either have they!” cried Tinsley. "So 
you know what They do?” 

"They? Who in hell are They?” 

He shut up. He went to his desk and sat 
down, w'earily, and finally said, "Never 
mind. Forget it. Don’t talk about this to 
anyone.” 

I softened up. "Bill, you should go see a 
psychiatrist about — ■” 

Tinsley laughed bitterly. "And the psy- 
chiatrist would tell his wife, and she’d tell 
others, and then They’d find out. They’re 



Sthe watchers 



23 



ever}’where, They are. I don’t want to be 
stopped with my campaign.” 

' If you mean the one hundred thousand 
bucks you’ve sunk in your insect sprays and 
ant pastes in the last four weeks,” I said. 
"Someone should stop you. You’ll break 
yourself, me, and the stockholders. Honest 
to God, Tinsley — ” 

"Shut up!” he said. "You don’t under- 
stand.” 

I guess I didn’t, then. I went back to my 
office and all day long I heard that damned 
flyswatter hissing in the air. 

1 HAD supper with Susan Miller that eve- 
ning. I told her about Tinsley and she 
lent a sympathetically professional ear. 
Then she tapped her cigarette and lit it and 
said, “Steve, I may be a psychiatrist, but I 
wouldn’t have a tinker’s chance in hell, un- 
less Tinsley came to see me. I couldn’t help 
him unless he wanted help.” She patted my 
arm. "I'll look him over for you, if you in- 
sist, though, for old time’s sake. But half the 
fight’s lost if the patient won’t cooperate.” 
"You’ve got to help me, Susan,” I said. 
"He’ll be stark raving in another month. I 
think he has delusions of persecution — ” 

We drove to Tinsley’s house. 

The first date worked out well. We 
laughed, we danced, we dined late at the 
Brown Derby, and Tinsley didn’t suspect 
for a moment that the slender, soft-voiced 
woman he held in his arms to a v/altz was a 
psychiatrist picking his reactions apart. From 
the table, I v/atched them, together, and I 
shielded a small laugh with my hand, and 
heard Susan laughing at one of his jokes. 

We drove along the road in a pleasant, 
relaxed silence, the silence that follows on 
the heels of a good, happy evening. The 
perfume of Susan w^as in the car, the radio 
played dimly, and the car v^ieels v/hirled 
with a slight whisper over the highway. 

I looked at Susan and she at me, her 
brows going up to indicate that she’d found 
nothing so far this evening to show that 
Tinsley was in any way unbalanced. I 
shrugged. 

At that very instant, a moth flew in the 
window, fluttering, flickering its velvety 
white wings upon the imprisoning glass. 

Tinsley screamed, v/renched tlie car invol- 
untarily, struck out a gloved hand at the 



moth, gabbling, his face pale. The tires wob- 
bled. Susan seized the steering wheel firmly 
and held the car on the road until we slowed 
to a stop. 

As we pulled up, Tinsley crushed the 
moth between tightened fingers and watched 
the odorous powder of it sift down upon 
Susan’s arm. We sat there, the three of us, 
breathing rapidly. 

Susan looked at me, and this time there 
was comprehension in her eyes. I nodded. 

Tinsley looked straight ahead, then. In a 
dream he said, "Ninety-nine percent of ail 
life in the world is insect life — ” 

He rolled up the windows without an- 
other word, and drove us home. 

Susan phoned me an hour later. "Steve, 
he’s built a terrific complex for himself. I’m 
having lunch with him tomorrow. He likes 
me. I might find out what we w'ant to knovr. 
By the way, Steve, does he own any pets?” 

Tinsley had never owned a cat or dog. Ke 
detested animals. 

"I might have expected that,” said Susan. 
"Well, good-night, Steve, see you tomor- 
row.” 

The flies were breeding thick and golden 
and buzzing like a million intricately fine 
electric machines in the pouring direct light 
of summer noon. In vortexes they whirled 
and curtained and fell upon refuse to injett 
their eggs, to mate, to flutter, to whirl again, 
as I watched them, and in their whirling my 
mind intermixed, I wondered why Tinsley 
should fear them so, should dread and kill 
them, and as I walked the streets, all about 
me, cutting arcs and spaces from the sky, 
omnipresent flies hummed and sizzled and 
beat their lucid wings. I counted darning 
needles, mud-daubers and hornets, yellow 
bees and brown ants. The world was sud- 
denly much more alive to me than ever be- 
fore, because Tinsley’s apprehensive aware- 
ness had set me aware. 

B efore I Imew my actions, brushing a 
small red ant from my coat that had 
fallen from a lilac bush as I passed, I turned 
in at a familiar white house and knew it to 
be Lav'yer Remington’s, who had been Tin- 
sley’s family representative for forty years, 
even before Tinsley was born. Remington 
was only a business acquaintance to me, but 
there I was, touching his gate and ringing 



24 



WEIRD TALES 



his bell and in a few minutes looking at 
him over a sparkling good glass of his 
sherry. 

"I remember,” said Remington, remem- 
bering. "Poor Tinsley. He was only seven- 
teen when it happened.” 

I leaned forward intently. "It happened?” 
The ant raced in wild frenzies upon the 
golden stubble on my fingers backs, becom- 
ing entangled in the bramble of my wrist, 
turning back, hopelessly clenching its man- 
dibles. I watched the ant. "Some unfortu- 
nate accident?” 

Lawyer Remington nodded grimly and 
the memory lay raw and naked in his old 
brown eyes. He spread the memory out on 
the table and pinned it down so I could look 
at it, with a few accurate words: 

"Tinsley’s father took him hunting up in 
the Lake Arrowhead region in the autumn 
of the young lad’s seventeenth year. Beauti- 
ful country, a lovely clear cold autumn day. 
I remember it because I was hunting not 
seventy miles from there on that selfsame 
afternoon. Game was plentiful. You could 
hear the sound of guns passing over and 
back across the lalces through the scent of 
pine trees. Tinsley’s father leaned his gun 
against a bush to lace his shoe, when a 
flurry of quail arose, some of them, in their 
fright, straight at Tinsley senior and his 
son.” 

Remington looked into his glass to see 
what he was telling. "A quail knodced the 
gun down, it fired off, and the charge struck 
the elder 'Tinsley full in the face!” 

"Good God!" 

In my mind I saw the elder Tinsley stag- 
ger, grasp at his red mask of face, drop his 
hands now gloved with scarlet fabric, and 
fall, even as the young boy, struck numb and 
ashen, swayed and could not believe what he 
saw. 

I drank my sherry hastily, and Remington 
continued : 

"But that wasn’t the least horrible of de- 
tails. One might think it sufficient. But 
what followed later was something inde- 
scribable to the lad. He ran five miles for 
help, leaving his father behind, dead, but 
refusing to believe him dead. Screaming, 
panting, ripping his clothes from his body, 
young Tinsley made it to a road and back 
w'ith a doctor and two other men in some- 



thing like six hours. The sun was just going 
down when they hurried back through the 
pine forest to where the father lay.” Rem- 
ington paused and shook his head from side 
to side, eyes closed. "The entire body,- the 
arms, the legs, and the shattered contour of 
what was once a strong, handsome face, was 
clustered over and covered with scuttling, 
twitching, insects, bugs, ants of every and all 
descriptions, drawn by the sweet odor of 
blood. It was impossible to see one square 
inch of the elder Tinsley’s body!” 

M entally, I created the pine trees, 
and the three men towering over the 
small boy who stood before a body upon 
which a tide of small attentively hungry 
creatures ebbed and flowed, subsided and 
returned. Somewhere, a woodpecker 
knocked, a squirrel scampered, and the quail 
beat their small wings. And the three men 
held onto the small boy’s arms and turned 
him away from the sight. . . . 

Some of the boy’s agony and terror must 
have escaped my lips, for when my mind re- 
turned to the library, I fomrd Remington 
staring at me, and my sherry glass broken in 
half causing a bleeding cut whidi I did not 
feel. 

“So that’s why Tinsley has this fear of in- 
sects and animals,” I breathed, several min- 
utes later, settling back, my heart pounding. 
"And it’s grown like a yeast over the years, 
to obsess him.” 

Remington expressed an interest in Tin- 
sley’s problem, but I allayed him and in- 
quired, "What was his father’s profession?” 
"I thought you knew!” cried Remington 
in faint surprise. "Why the elder Tinsley 
was a very famous naturalist. Very famous 
indeed. Ironic, in a way, isn’t it, that he 
should be killed by the very creatures which 
he studied, eh?” 

"Yes.” I rose up and shook Remington’s 
hand. "Thanks, Lawyer. You’ve helped me 
very much. I must get going now.” 
"Good-by.” 

I stood in the open air before Remington’s 
house and the ant still scrambled over my 
hand, wildly. I began to understand and 
sympathize deeply with Tinsley for the first 
time. I went to pick up Susan in my car. 

Susan pushed the veil of her hat back 
from her eyes and looked off into the dis- 



THE WATCHERS 



tance and said, "What you’ve told me pretty 
well puts the finger on Tinsley, all right. 
He’s been brooding.” She waved a hand. 
"Look around. See how easy it would be to 
believe that insects are really the horrors he 
makes them out to be. There’s a Monarch 
butterfly pacing us.” She flicked a fingernail. 
"Is it listening to our every word? Tinsley 
the elder was a naturalist. What happened? 
He interfered, busybodied where he wasn’t 
wanted, so They, 'They who control the ani- 
mals and insects, killed him. Night and day 
for the last ten years that thought has been 
on Tinsley’s mind, and everj'where he 
looked he saw the numerous life of the 
world and the suspicions began to take 
shape, form and substance!” 

"I can’t say I blame him,” I said. "If my 
father had been killed in a like fashion — ” 
"He refuses to talk when there’s an insect 
in the room, isn’t that it, Steve?” 

"Yes, he’s afraid they’ll discover that he 
know's about them.” 

"You can see how silly that is, yourself, 
can’t you. He couldn’t possibly keep it a 
secret, grariting that butterflies and ants and 
houseflies are evil, for you and I have talked 
about it, and others too. But he persists in 
his delusion that as long as he himself says 
no word in Their presence . . . well, he’s 
still alive, isn’t he? 'They haven’t destroyed 
him, have they? And if They were evil and 
feared his knowledge, wouldn’t they have 
destroyed him long since?” 

"Maybe they’re playing with him?” I 
wondered. "You know it is strange. The 
Elder Tinsley was on the verge of some 
great discovery when he was killed. It sort 
of fits a pattern.” 

"I’d better get you out of this hot sun,” 
laughed Susan, swerving the car into a shady 
lane. 

T he next Sunday morning, Bill Tinsley 
and Susan and I attended church and sat 
in the middle of the soft music and the vast 
muteness and quiet color. During the serv- 
ice, Bill began to laugh to himself until I 
shoved him in the ribs and asked him v/hat 
was wrong. 

"Look at the Reverend up there,” replied 
Tinsley, fascinated. "There’s a fly on his 
bald spot. A fly in church. 'They go every- 
where, I tell you. Let the minister talk, it 



won’t do a bit of good. Oh, gentle, lord.” 

After the service we drove for a picnic 
lunch in the country under a warm 'nlue sky. 
A few times, Susan tried to get Bill on the 
subject of his fear, but Bill only pointed at 
the train of ants swarming across the picnic 
linen and shook his head, angrily. Later, he 
apologized and with a certain tenseness, 
asked us to come up to his house that eve- 
ning, he couldn’t go on much longer by him- 
self, he was running low on funds, the 
business was liable to go on the rocks, and 
he needed us. Susan and I held onto his 
hands and understood. In a matter of forty 
minutes we were inside the locked study of 
his house, cocktails in our midst, with Tin- 
sley pacing anxiously back and forth, dan- 
dling his familiar flyswatter, searching the 
room and killing two flies before he made 
his speech. 

He tapped the wall. "Metal. No maggots, 
ticks, woodbeetles, termites. Metal chairs, 
metal everything. We’re alone, aren’t we?” 

I looked around. "I think so.” 

"Good.” Bill drew in a breath and ex- 
haled. "Have you ever wondered about God 
and the Devil and the Universe, Susan, 
Steve? Have you ever realized how cruel the 
world is? How we try to get ahead, but are 
hit over the head every time we succeed a 
fraction?” I nodded silently, and Tinsley 
went on. "You sometimes wonder where 
God is, or where the Forces of Evil are. You 
wonder how these forces get aroimd, if they 
are invisible angels. Well, the solution is 
simple and clever and scientific. We are 
being watched constantly. Is there ever a 
minute in our lives that passes without a fly 
buzzing in our room with us, or an ant 
crossing our path, or a flea on a dog, or a 
cat itself, or a beetle or moth rushing 
through the dark, or a mosquito skirting 
around a netting?” 

Susan said nothing, but looked at Tinsley 
easily and without making him self-con- 
scious. Tinsley sipped his drink. 

"Small winged things we pay no heed to, 
that follow us every day of our lives, that 
listen to our prayers and our hopes and our 
desires and fears, that listen to us and then 
tell what there is to be told to Him or Her 
or It, or whatever Force sends them out into 
the world.” 

"Oh, come now,” I said impulsively. 



26 



WEIRD TALES 



To my surprise, Susan hushed me. "Let 
him finish,” she said. Then she looked at 
Tinsley. “Go on.” 

Tinsley said, “It sounds silly, but I’ve 
gone about this in a fairly scientific manner. 
First, I’ve never been able to figure out a 
reason for so many insects, for their varied 
profusion. They seem to be nothing but irri- 
tants to we mortals, at the very least. Well, 
a very simple explanation is as follows: the 
government of Them is a small body, it may 
be one person alone, and It or They can’t be 
everywhere. Flies can be. So can ants and 
other insects. And since vre mortals cannot 
tell one ant from another, all identity is im- 
possible and one fly is as good as another, 
their set-up is perfect. There are so many 
of them and there have been so many for 
years, that we pay no attention to them. Like 
Hawthorne’s 'Scarlet Letter,’ they are right 
before our eyes and familiarity has blinded 
us to them.” 

“I don’t believe any of that,” I said di- 
rectly. 

"Let me finish!” cried Tinsley, hurriedly. 
“Before you judge. There is a' Force, and it 
must have a contactual system, a communi- 
citive set-up, so that life can be twisted and 
adjusted according to each individual. Think 

it, billions of insects, checking, correlat- 
ing and reporting on their special subjects, 
controlling humanity!” 

“Look here!” I burst out. “You’ve grown 
worse ever since that accident back when you 
were a kid! You’ve let it feed on your mind! 
You can’t go on fooling yourself!” I got up. 

“Steve!” Susan rose, too, her cheeks red- 
dening. "You won’t help with talk like 
th.it! Sit down.” She pressed against my 
chest. Then she turned rapidly to Tinsley. 
"Bill, if what you say should be true, if all 
of your plans, I’^our insect-proofing your 
house, your silence in the presence of their 
small winged creatures, your, campaign, your 
ant pastes and pitifully small insect sprays, 
.should really mean something, why are you 
■Still alive?” 

"Why?” shouted Tinsley. “Because, I’ve 
v/r.rked alone.” 

"But if there is a They, Bill, They have 
known of you for a month now, because 
Steve and I have told them, haven’t we 
Steve, and yet you live. Isn’t that proof that 
you must be wrong.” 



“You told them? You told!” Tinsley’s 
eyes showed white and furious. “No, you 
didn’t, I made Steve promise!” 

"Listen to me.” Susan’s voice shook him, 
as she might shake a small boy by the scruff 
of his neck, "Listen, before you scream. Will 
you agree to an experiment?” 

“What kind of experiment?” 

“From now on, all of your plans will be 
above-board, in the open. If nothing hap- 
pens to you in the next eight weeks, then 
you’ll have to agree that your fears are base- 
less.” 

"But they’ll kill me!” 

“Listen! Steve and I will stake our lives 
on it. Bill. If you die, Steve and I’ll die with 
you. I value my life greatly. Bill, and Steve 
values his. We don’t believe in your horrors, 
and we want to get you out of this.” 

Tinsley hung his head and looked at the 
floor. "I don’t know. I don’t knovr.” 
"Eight weeks, Bill. You can go on the 
rest of your life, if you v.dsh, manufacturing 
insecticides, but for God’s sake don’t have a 
nervous breakdown over it. Hie very fact of 
your living should be some sort of proof that 
They bear you no ill-will, and have left you 
intact?” 

INSLEY had to admit to that. But he 
was reluctant to give in. He murmured 
almost to himself, "This is the beginning of 
the campaign. It might take a thousand 
years, but in the end we can liberate our- 
selves.” 

“You can be liberated in eight w'eeks. 
Bill, don’t you see? If we can prove that in- 
sects are blameless? For the next eight 
weeks, carry on your campaign, advertise it 
in v/eekly magazines and papers, thrust it to 
the hilt, tell everyone, so that if you should 
die, the word v/ill be left behind. Then, 
when the eight weeks are up, you’ll be liber- 
ated and free, and won’t that feel good to 
you. Bill, after all these years?” 

Something happened then that startled us. 
Buzzing over our heads, a fly came by. It 
had been in the room with us all the time, 
and yet I had sworn that, earlier, I had seen 
none. Tinsley began to shiver. I didn’t know 
what I was doing, I seemed to react mechani- 
caHy to some inner drive. I grabbed at the 
air and caught the tight buzzing in a cupped 
hand. Then I crushed it bard, staring at 




THE WATCHERS 



27 



Bill and Susan. Their faces were chalky. 

"I got it,” I said, cra 2 ily. "I got the 
damned thing, and I don’t know why.” 

I opened my hand. The fly dropped to 
the floor. I stepped on it as I had seen Bill 
often step on them, and my body was cold 
for no reason. Susan stared at me as if she’d 
lost her last friend. 

"What am I saying?” I cried. "I don’t be- 
lieve a damn word of all this filth!” 

It was dark outside the thick-glassed win- 
dow. Tinsley managed to light a cigarette 
and then, because all three of us were in a 
strange state of nerves, offered to let us have 
rooms in the house for the night. Susan said 
she would stay if: "you promise to give the 
eight- week trial a chance.” 

"You’d risk your life on it?” Bill couldn’t 
make Susan out. 

Susan nodded gravely. "We’ll be joking 
about it next year.” 

Bill said, "All fight. The eight-week trial 
it is.” 

My room, upstairs, had a fine view of the 
spreading country hills. Susan stayed in the 
room next to mine, and Bill slept across the 
hall. Lying in bed I heard the crickets 
chirping outside my v/indow, and I could 
hardly bear the sound. 

I closed the window. 

Later in the night I got no sleep so I be- 
gan imagining that a mosquito was soaring 
freely about in the dark of my room. Finally, 
I robed myself and fumbled down to the 
kitchen, not actually hungry, but wanting 
something to do to stop my nervousness. I 
found Susan bending over the refrigerator 
trays, selecting food. 

We looked at one another. We handed 
plates of stuff to the table and sat stiffly 
down. 'The world was unreal to us. Some- 
how, being around Tinsley made the uni- 
verse insecure and misty underfoot. Susan, 
for all her training and mind-culture, was 
still a woman, and deep under, women are 
superstitious. 

To top it all, w'e were about to plunge our 
knives into the half-shattered carcass of a 
chicken when a fly landed upon it. 

We sat looking at the fly for five minutes. 
The fly walked around on the chicken, flew 
up, circled, and came back to promenade a 
drumsticl:. 

We put the chicken back in the ice-box, 



joking very quietly about it, talked uneasily 
for awhile, and returned upstairs, where we 
shut our doors and felt alone. I climbed into 
bed and began ha-eing bad dreams before 1 
shut my eyes. My wrist-watch set up an 
abominable loud clicking in the blackness, 
and it had clicked several thousand times 
when I heard the scream. 

I DON’T mind hearing a woman scream 
occasionally, but a man’s scream is so 
strange, and is heard so rarely, that when it 
finally comes, it turns your blood into an 
arctic torrent. The screaming seemed to be 
borne all through the house and it seemed I 
heard some frantic words babbled that 
sounded like, "Now I know why They let 
me live!” 

I pulled the door wide in time to see Tin- 
sley running down the hall, his clothing 
drenched and soaked, his body wet from 
head to foot. He turned v/hen he saw me, 
and cried out, "Stay away from me, oh God, 
Steve, don’t touch me, or it’ll happen to you, 
too! I was wrong! I was wrong, yes, but 
near the truth, too, so very near!” 

Before I could prevent him, he had de- 
scended the stairs and slammed the door be- 
low. Susan suddenly stood beside me. "He’s 
gone mad for certain this time, Steve, we’ve 
got to stop him.” 

A noise from the bathroom drew my at- 
tention. Peering in, I turned off the shower 
which was steaming hot, drumming insist- 
ently, scaldingly, on the yellow tiles. 

Bill’s car thundered into life, a jerking of 
gears, and the car careened down the road at 
an insane speed. 

"We’ve got to follow him,” insisted 
Susan. "He’ll kill himself! He’s trying to 
run away from something. Where’s your 
car?” 

We ran to my car through a cold wind, 
under very cold stars, climbed in, warmed 
the motor, and were off, bewildered and 
breathless. "Which way?” I shouted. 

"He went east, I’m certain.” 

"East it is, then.” I poked up the speed 
and muttered, "Oh, Bill, you idiot, you fool. 
Slow down. Come back. Wait for me, you 
nut.” I felt Susan’s arm creep through my 
elbow and hold tight. She whispered, 
"Faster!” and I said, "We’re going sixty 
now, and there are some bad turns coming!” 



28 



WEIRD TALES 



The night had gotten into us; the talk of 
insects, the wind, the roaring of the tires 
over hard concrete, the beating of our fright- 
ened hearts. "There!” Susan pointed. I saw 
a gash of light cutting through the hills a 
mile away. "More speed, Steve!” 

More speed. Aching foot pressing out 
the miles, motor thundering, stars wheeling 
crazily overhead, lights cutting the dark 
away into dismembered sections. And in my 
mind I saw Tinsley again, in the hall, 
drenched to the skin. He had been standing 
under the hot, scalding shower! Why? Why? 

"Bill, stop, you idiot! Stop driving! 
Where are you going, what are you running 
away from, Bill?” 

We were catching up with him now. We 
drew closer, yard by yard, bit by bit, around 
curves where gravity yanked at us and tried 
tc smash us against huge granite bulwarks 
of earth, over hills and dovm into night- 
filled valleys, over streams and bridges, 
around curves again. 

"He’s only about six hundred yards ahead, 
now,” said Susan. 

"We’ll get him.” I twisted the wheel. "So 
help me God, we’ll get to him!” 

'Then, quite unexpectedly, it happened. 

T INSLEY’S car slowed down. It slowed 
and crept along the road. We were on a 
straight length of concrete that continued 
for a mile in a firm line, no curves or hills. 
His car slowed to a crawling, puttering pace. 
By the time we pulled up in back of him, 
Tinsley’s roadster was going three miles an 
hour, just poking along at a pace like a man 
walking, its lights glaring. 

"Steve — ” Susan’s fingernails cut my 
wrist, tight, hard. "Something’s— v/rong.” 

I knew it. I honked the horn. Silence. I 
honked again and it was a lonely, blatant 
sound in the darkness and the emptiness. I 
parked the car. Tinsley’s car moved on like 
a metal snail ahead of us, its exhaust v/his- 
pering to the night. I opened the door and 
.slid out. "Stay here,” I warned Susan. In 
the reflected glare her face was like snow 
and her lips were trembling. 

I ran to the car, calling, "Bill, Bill — !” 
Tinsley didn’t answer. He couldn’t. 

He just lay there behind the wheel, qui- 
etly, and the car moved ahead, slowly, so 
very slov/ly. 



I got sick to my stomach. I reached in and 
braked the car and cut the ignition, not look- 
ing at him, my mind working in a slow kind 
of new and frightened horror. 

I looked once more at Bill where he 
slumped with his head back. 

It didn’t do any good to kill flies, kill 
moths, kill termites, kill mosquitoes. The 
Evil ones were too clever for that. 

Kill all the insects you find, destroy the 
dogs and the cats and the birds, the weasels 
and the chipmunks, and the termites, and 
all animals and insects in the world, it can 
be done, eventually by man, killing, killing 
killing, and after you are finished, after that 
job is done you still have — ^microbes. 

Bacteria. Microbes. Yes. Unicellular and 
bi-cellular and multi-cellular microscopic 
life! 

Millions of them, billions of them on 
every pore, on every inch of flesh of your 
body. On your lips when you speak, inside 
your ears when you listen, on your skin 
when you feel, on your tongue when you 
taste, in your eyes when you see! You can’t 
wash them off, you can’t destroy all of them 
in the world! It would be an impossible task, 
impossible! You discovered that, didn’t you. 
Bill. I stared at him. ’We almost convinced 
you, didn’t we, Bill, that insects were not 
guilty, were not Watchers. We were right 
about that part of it. We convinced you and 
you got to thinking tonight, and you hit 
upon the real crux of the situation. Bacteria. 
That’s why the shower was running at home 
just now! But you can’t kill bacteria fast 
enough. They multiply and multiply, in- 
stantly! 

I looked at Bill, slumped there. "The fly- 
swatter, you thought the flyswatter was 
enough. That’s a — laugh.” 

Bill, is that you lying there with your 
body changed by leprosy and gangrene and 
tuberculosis and malaria and bubonic all at 
once? Where is the skin of your face, Bill, 
and the flesh of your bones, your fingers ly- 
ing clenched to the steering wheel. Oh, God, 
Tinsley, the color and the smell of you — the 
rotting fetid combination of disease you are! 

Microbes. Messengers. Millions of them. 
Billions of them. 

God can’t be everywhere at once. Maybe 
He invented flies, insects to watch his peo- 
ples. 



THE WATCHERS 



29 



But the Evil Ones were brilliant, too. 
They invented bacteria! 

Bill, you look so different . . . . 

You’ll not tell your secret to the world 
now. I returned to Susan, looked in at her, not 
able to speak. I could only point for her to 
go home, without me. I had a job to do, to 
drive Bill’s car into the ditch and set fire to 
him and it. Susan drove away, not looking 
back. 

A nd now, tonight, a week later, I am 
typing this out for what it is worth, 
here and now, in the summer evening, with 
flies buzzing about my room. Now I realize 
why Bill Tinsley lived so long. While his 
efforts were directed against insects, ants, 
birds, animals, who were representatives of 
the Good Forces, the Evil Forces let him go 
ahead. Tinsley, unaware, was working for 
the Evil Ones. But when he comprehended 
that bacteria were the real enemy, and were 
more numerous and invisibly insidious, then 
the Evil Ones demolished him. 

In my mind, I still remember the picture 
of the Eider Tinsley’s death, when he was 
shot as a result of the quail flying against his 
gun. On the face of it, it doesn’t seem to fit 
into the picture. Why would the quail, rep- 
resentative of Good, kill the Elder Tinsley? 
The answer to this comes clear now. Quail, 
too, have disease, and disease disrupts their 
neutral set-up, and disease, on that day long 
ago, caused the birds to strike down Tin- 
sley’s v/eapon, killing him, and thus, subtly, 
animals and insects. 



And another thought in my mind is the 
picture of the Elder Tinsley as he lay covered 
with ants in a red, quivering blanket. And 
I wonder if perhaps they were not giving 
solace to him in his dying and decay, talking 
in some silent mandibled tongue none of us 
can hear until we die. Or perhaps they are 
all. 

The game of chess continues. Good 
against Evil, I hope. And I am losing. 

Tonight I sit here writing and waiting, 
and my skin itches and softens, and Susan is 
on the other side of town, unaware, safe 
from this knowledge which I must set on 
paper even if it kills me. I listen to the 
flies, as if to detect some good message in 
their uneven whirring, but I hear nothing. 

Even as I write, the skin of my fingers 
loosens and changes color and m.y face feels 
partially dry and flaking, partially wet, slip- 
pery and released from its anchorage of soft- 
ening bone, my eyes water with a kind of 
leprosy and my skin darkens v/ith something 
akin to bubonic, my stomach gripes me with 
siclcening gastric wrenches, my tongue tastes 
bitter and acid, my teeth loosen in my 
mouth, my ears ring, and in a few minutes 
the structure of my fingers, the muscles, the 
small thin fine bones will be enmeshed, en- 
tangled, so much fallen gelatin spread over 
and down between the black lettered keys of 
this typev/riter, the flesh of me will slide like 
a decayed, diseased cloak from my skeleton, 
but I must write on and on and on until 
etaoin shrdiucmfwyp cmfwyp . . . cmfwaaaaa 
ddddddddddddddddddd 





B rian CULLAN had flown the big 
army amphibian plane almost half- 
• way back across the North Atlantic to 
America, when he saw the sign in the sky. 

Every mile that had slipped behind them 
had lessened a little the war-weariness that 
had sagged CuIIan’s lean shoulders and put 
premature lines of age in his dark, worn 
young face. The war was over, and they 
were going home, and Ire felt dull, tired 
relief. 

An odd darkness was gathering in the 
sunlit sky around them, an increasing ob- 
scurity as of coming storm. Cullan and his 
co-pilot, squat, merry Jeff Lewis, had been 



watching it. Then suddenly, lightning 
flared through the obscurity — lightning that 
for a moment seemed to take the form of a 
flaming, spinning circle. 

"Lugh’s wheel!” exclaimed Cullan, an 
uncanny thrill jerking him bolt upright in 
his seat. "The sign of Tir Sorcha!” 

“What the devil are you talking about?” 
demanded Lewis. 

Cullan saw that freak of curving light- 
ning vanish as he spoke. The queer thrill 
of eeriness left him. 

He smiled a little shamefacedly. "An 
old Celtic superstition. My people came 
originally from Ulster, you know. I still 



There is a strange, unseeable Elysium that exists out in the western sea, 
home of a great pre-human race! 



30 





By EDMOND 
HAMILTON 



have kinsfolk there, and I was talking to 
one of them before we left Belfast. She 
gave me this.” 

He held out his hand to show the ring he 
wore. It was a worn, ancient hoop of gold 
set with a curious prismatic crystal. 

Cullan stared at it in sudden surprise. 
The crystal was glowing. Little flashes of 
light, tiny spears of radiance, scintillated 
in it. The tiny rays seemed to form a shin- 
ing, wheel-shaped sign! 

"That’s funny— it didn’t glow like that 



Heading by BORIS DOLGOT 



31 



n 



WEIRD TALES 



before,” Cullan murmured, puzzledly. 
"Maybe electric influence of approaching 
storm — ” 

He suddenly remembered what his old 
kinswoman had told him when she gave him 
the ring, back there in her little cottage in 
the low green Ulster hills. 

"The ring goes always to the oldest male 
m our family. And since rny other grand- 
nephew was killed in the war, it must be 
yours. It comes down in our family from 
Cuchulain himself.” 

"Cuchulain.^” Cullan had smiled at men- 
tion of the great hero of Celtic antiquity. 
"You don’t really believe that he was our 
ancestor. Aunt Maeve.^” 

"And how could I believe otherwise 
when the pride of our lineage has been 
handed down to us these two thousand 
years?” the old lady had retorted. “Isn’t 
your name Cullan and wasn’t the great 
Cuchulain the Hound of Cullan? Isn’t that 
the very ring that he called the Unlocker, 
and that Cuchulain brought back with him 
from the Shining Land?” 

Brian Cullan had grinned. "I’ve flown 
the Atlantic a good many times during the 
wear, and I never saw any trace of Tir 
Sorcha.” 

"And how could you see the Shining 
Land when it’s invisible to the eyes of 
man?” she had demanded stoutly. "Wasn’t 
Cuchulain himself almost the only man who 
ever entered it, and didn’t even he almost 
fail to come back from it to his waiting 
wife?” 

Cullan had taken the ring. He knew his 
great-aunt’s seriousness where the old 
legends were concerned. 

He too had learned those stories w'hen 
he was a child in faraway America — the 
great tales of the Ultonian cycle, of the 
heroes of the Red Branch and of the dark 
warrior among them who had blazed out in 
battle as Cuchulain, the Celtic Achilles. 

His old kinswoman’s Arm belief m.ade the 
tales seem almost real. The unquenchable 
romance and mystery in the Celtic soul gave 
her firm belief in even that cardinal tenet of 
Celtic legend — Tir Sorcha, the Shining 
Land, the strange, unseeable elysium that 
somehow existed out in the western sea and 
was home of the great, pre-human race, the 
Tuatha De. 



Cullan was abruptly snatched back from 
memory by the impact of shrieking w'inds 
on the flying plane. Startled, he looked 
around. 

"We've got to get out of this mess 
quick!” Jeff Lewis yelled. 

Cullan stared. "I never saw a storm come 
up like this!” 

The whole sky around them had swiftly 
deepened in obscurity, and the dark haze 
was boiling up in terrifying thunderheads 

C ULLAN tried to swing the plane around. 

But howling winds hurled the ship on 
like a toy into the lightning-split darkness 
The left aileron was suddenly crumpled bv 
an inconceivable fist of wind. 

"That does it — we’re going downstairs 
now for sure!” cried Lewis. 

Cullan’s hands fought the controls, trying 
to keep the plane out of an instant plunge. 
He noticed startledly that the crystal on his 
finger was now glowing like a tiny, flaming 
sun. 

Abruptly came a wrenching shock. The 
plane seemed to drop with sickening rapid- 
ity as though in a terrific downdraft. Yet 
for ail their sudden nausea, the altimeter 
registered no change. 

Darkness, lightning and howling winds 
were suddenly gone! They were surrounded 
by mists that glowed with wonderful, golden 
radiance, a glowing, unearthly haze. 

Cullan, looking out into that golden mist 
through which the plane was slanting down- 
ward, gasped his incredulous amazement. 
"Tir Sorcha! The Shining Land!” 
"What do you mean?” Lewis demanded 
impatiently. "What — ” 

His voice trailed to silence and his broad 
red face was a frozen mask of incredulity as 
he looked downward through the window. 

The golden mists were thinning as tl)c 
crippled plane slanted lower. They made- 
out beneath the tawny yellow swell of an 
ocean far different from the gray-green 
Atlantic. 

Tliere was an island below them! A big, 
whale-shaped green land, miles long, 
rimmed by surf-whipped white beaches. 
And in the misty distance beyond they 
could glimpse other islands, clustered near 
and far. 

"Tliere’s no islands in the North Atlan- 



The shining land 



53 



tic!” choked Jeff Lewis. "There just isn’t.” 
"Atlantic? That’s not the Atlantic!” 
flashed Culian. His black eyes flared with 
excitement. “It’s not our world at all but 
Tir Sor.cha, the Shining Land.” 

Stunned bewilderment made his co-pilot’s 
voice savage. "Will you stop mouthing silly 
superstitions and—” 

"I tell you, it’s the Shining Land just as 
legend described it!” cried Culian. “Tir 
Sorcha, the other world, the world of Lugh 
and Dagda and Mannanan and all the others 
of the old gods, the Tuatha De.” 

His voice raced on with his thoughts. “It 
must be an interpenetrating world, Jeff! A 
world congruent with Earth, on a different 
plane of vibration. The legends always said 
that Tir Sorcha was locked close to Earth but 
that neither world was visible or tangible to 
the other. Yet a few passed from world to 
world, and somehow we’ve done it too.” 
Lev/is tried to voice disbelief and could 
not. The island looming up below was flat 
rejection of all his arguments. 

Brian Cullan’s mind was thrilling to wild 
surmise. He remembered how the crystal 
of bis ring had pulsed v.dth blinding radi- 
ance. 

"The crj'stal did it somehow, Jeff! Cuchu- 
lain himself is said to have brought it back 
from the Shining Land, . calling it the Un- 
locker. Somehow, it tuned our plane and 
us to the vibration of the other world — ” 
"Forget that and try to get us down v/ith- 
out cracking up!” exclaimed the dazed co- 
pilot.” 

Instincts fostered by long discipline took 
over Cuiian’s mind to the exclusion of all 
else, as the crippled amphibian sagged to- 
ward the running yellov' waves. lie noted 
a little boy on the island’s shore. 

"It’s calmer there — I’ll try to make the 
beach.” 

niHE ship struck the water and skimmed 
-I- forward like a giant surf-board toward 
the white beach of the whale-shaped island. 

It rolled up through the yellovv? waters 
onto firm sand. Culian cut the motors and 
they scrambled out, stood staring wonder- 
ingly. 

The island was silent except for the dis- 
tant boom of surf. The yellow sea, and 
the golden mists that hid the sun, and the 



strange scents of alien flowers that freighted 
the balmy air, held tliem transfixed. 

"God, look at that!” exclaimed Lewis 
hoarsely, pointing. 

Black, monstrous-winged shapes of size 
incredi’ole were winging up from a distant 
part of the island. They were dragon-iilce 
birds of dimensions enormous, huge as the 
rocs of Arabian fable. 

They flapped away in a direction away 
from Culian and Lewis, vast wings shadow- 
ing the golden sky, uttering startled, squawk- 
ing sounds. 

"I know now what place this is,” husked 
Culian. "The Island of Great Birds. Mael- 
dun touched here when Ae voyaged through 
the Shining Land centuries ago, says the 
story. And those other islands — ” 

Those other isles that rose vaguely 
through the distant golden mists were the 
isles of the Celtic elysium exactly as legend 
described them! 

The' Island of Giant Flowers whose 
blooms tov/ered higher than tall oaks; the 
Island of Silver whose beaches and rocks 
glittered as if of solid metal; the Island of 
Fire that blazed a red beacon through the- 
golden mists; Culian dazedly named them 
from legend as he stared. 

"Hov/ are we going to get back — to 
Earth?” Jeff Lewis demanded, his broad face 
still v.'earing a stunned look. 

"Others — few — entered this world in 
the far past and yet got back,” muttered 
Culian. “Cuchulain, and Maeldun, and — ” 

"Culian, look what’s coming!” yelled 
Lewis, pointing suddenly to their right. 

Long, slim boats of burnished metal 
were racing toward them at great speed, oar- 
less and sailless vessels that came obliquely 
across the yellow sea toward the beach on 
which they stood. 

Culian glimpsed the crews of the high 
prowed metal boats as they hit the beach 
and tumbled ashore with a fierce, high yell. 
They were tall, fair-haired men in silver 
mail and helmets, carrying swords that were 
like brands of living flame as they charged 
toward the airmen. 

"Back into the plane!” Lewis was yelling 
hoarsely, tugging at his arm. "We can taxi 
it out of here — ” 

Brian Culian remained frozen for a fatal 
minute of delay, transfixed by the appear- 



34 



WEIRD TALES 



ante of those towering silver-armored war- 
riors. 

'The Tuatha De!” he whispered. “The 
great race of the old gods who ruled Earth 
once — ” 

"Wake up!” yelled Lewis, his face livid. 
'They’ve cut us off now!” 

The warriors were between them and the 
beached amphibian. They were rushing to- 
ward the two pilots with obvious murder- 
ous intent, brandishing those weird flam- 
ing swords and yelling fiercely as they 
came. 

C ULLAN partly recognized the language 
in which they shouted! It was a language 
closely akin to the ancient Gaelic of the 
Celts, that Gaelic which he had learned 
from his race-proud father as a child. 

Desperately, Cullan threw up his hand 
and shouted to the charging warriors in 
Gaelic. "Wait! We are friends, not ene- 
mies!” 

The warriors stopped, seemingly amazed. 
“These men speak me tongue of usTuatha!” 
exclaimed one. 

"Nevertheless, they are outworlders,” 
rang a clear, commanding voice. "They 
have broken the law, have somehow opened 
the Portal and entered Tir Sorcha. You 
know the penalty. Kill!” 

"The Princess Fand has spoken — kill!” 
roared a captain. 

Cullan’ s eyes flashed to the source of the 
order. It was a woman, slim in silver armor 
and helmet, a sheathed sword at her belt. 

Fand! He knew that name! Princess 
of Tir Sorcha, wife of Mannanan — fairest 
of the Tuatha De, the oldd tales had said. 

A white, lovely face, merciless in every 
chiseled feature, met his gaze. Sea-green 
eyes under straight dark brows flared at 
him and then suddenly those eyes widened, 
stared wildly at Cullan. 

"Wait!” cried Fand. “Do not kill! Oh, 
fool — blind fool! It is he!” 

They stood on the white beach, incredi- 
ble group of dazed two airmen and puz- 
zled ominously Tuatha warriors, all looking 
at her. 

Fand’s green eyes were dark with sudden 
wild tears, and her gaze had not left Brian 
Cullan’s dark, haggard face. She ran for- 
ward, swiftly as a sea-bird. 



Her bare; white arms flashed around his 
neck. Cullan, incredulous, felt her sobbing 
on his chest. 

"Cuchulain!” she cried. "Cuchulain!” 

II 

RIAN CULLAN, his pulses thudding, 
found his arms around her. Dazed as 
he was, a wild thrill shot through him. Be- 
neath the flexible tunic of silver chain-mail, 
her body was pliant and yielding. Stray 
strands of dark, perfumed hair bmshed his 
face. 

No elfin queen of faery legend this — 
but a girl, a woman, warm and living. 
Blood hammered in his temples as she 
turned her eager eyes up to him. 

“I — I am not Cuchulain,” he said starn- 
meringly, in the Gaelic. "Cuchulain died 
two thousand years ago.” 

Fand’s white face was stricken by a swift, 
terrible hopelessness as she scanned his face. 

"Two thousand years?” she whispered. 
"Of course — I forgot, for the moment when 
I first saw you, that time is different on 
Earth.” 

Cullan felt a shock of discovery. This was 
the explanation, then, of the Shining Land. 
— an interpenetrating world whose time 
even was at a different pace than Earth’s? 

If that were so, it explained why every- 
thing here in Tir Sorcha was still exactly as 
described by the few men of Earth who 
centuries ago had claimed to have visited 
here. Centuries had passed on Earth, but 
it had been a vastly shorter period in the 
time of this world. 

Fand had stepped back a little, but her 
wide green eyes still searched his face. "But 
you are Cuchulain, in every feature!” she 
gasped. “And you wear the crystal that I 
gave him when he left here six of our 
years ago — the Unlocker that would enable 
him to return through the Portal. Where 
got you that?” 

Cullan looked at the ring upon his finger. 
"It came down in my family for a hundred 
generations. It was supposed to come from 
our remote ancestor — ^Cuchulain.” 

“Then you are of his blood?” cried Fand. 
"I should have known it. For you are the 
mold of him as he was.” 

They were interrupted. The tail Tuatha 




THE SHINING LAND 



35 



captain had stepped forward, and now spoke 
with impatient fierceness. 

"ShalLwe not kill them now. Princess?” 
he asked. 

Little storm lightnings flared in Fand’s 
sea-green eyes as she turned on the man. 
"No! These two do not die.” 

The Tuatha warriors looked shocked. 
"But the Law says that none of Earth may 
enter this world and live. And w'hen the 
Portal opened so strangely but now, did you 
not summon us to follow you and slay who- 
ever might have entered it from the out- 
world?” 

■'Will you argue my order?” flamed Fand. 
"I command the Portal, do I not?” 

"Under Lugh and the other lords, you 
do,” gnunbled the captain. "But if Man- 
naaan hears of this — ” 

She silenced them with an imperious ges- 
ture of her hand. "No more! We take 
them to Ethne with us.” 

She motioned toward the metal boats. 
Lewis, interpreting her gesture, looked anx- 
iously at Cullan. "We can’t leave the 
plane!” 

Fand understood his objection when 
Cullan translated. "You wish to take that 
clumsy craft of yours along? Well, then 
you can follow our boats.” 

She gave brief orders to her Tuatha war- 
riors. They followed her bade toward the 
slim metal craft, v/hile Cullan and Lev.^is re- 
entered the amphibian. 

The metal boats skimmed rapidly a\vay 
across the yellow sea. Cullan started the 
motors and kept their plane taxiing over 
the smooth swells after them. But the 
plane could hardly keep up to the slim, 
speeding craft ahead. 

He saw no sign of propulsion machinery 
in the boats except a square box at the stern 
of each, and a continuous flash of white 
fire or force that jetted back underv/ater. 
Startled, he realized that that and the queer 
force-flaming swords he had seen indicated 
a mastery of energies unknown to Earth 
science. 

Jefl Lewis was pouring a torrent of ques- 
tions on him. "Who is she? Why did she 
seem to'knov/ you? Cullan, what in the 
devil’s name does it all mean?” 

Cullan strove to order his own seething 
thoughts. "We’ve come into an interpene- 



trating world that men have entered before, 
though long ago. Cuchulain, my ancestor, 
was one of them. He was here— two thou- 
sand years ago by our time, six years ago by 
the time of this world! 

"For time runs far more siov/ly in this 
world. A day here is a year in our own 
Earth. As to the girl, she is Fand, wife of 
Mannanan, one of the lords of the Tuatha 
De. She knew Cudiulain when he was 
here, it seems, and gave him this crystal 
so he could return. And I must look like 
him, for she thought for a moment that I 
was he.” 

Jeff Lewis whistled, "^le must have 
known your ancestor pretty well, judging 
from the reception she gave you.” 

T EIE co-pilot reasoned feverishly. "We’ve 
got to get back to our ov/n world, and 
maybe she can help. If she could fix it for 
your ancestor Cuchulain to come and go, she 
can do it for us. Maybe that crystal would 
work both ways?” 

Cullan did not answer. He didn’t want 
to think of returning to Earth, in this mo- 
ment. Elis blood was tingling with a heady 
excitement as they raced on over the yellow 
sea beneatli the golden mists, past the dim 
green islands. 

'This was the Elysium of his race, found 
real and tangible by a freak of fate. Straight 
out of war-worn old Earth he had been 
plunged into the wmnder and loveliness of 
Tir S^orcha, the Shining Land. He almost 
felt that he had been here before, as he 
drank in the haunting beauty of the W'eird 
land. But that, he knew, must be because 
legend had made him familiar wdth it for 
so long. 

A bigger island was taking shape in the 
mists ahead. They could see it only dimly 
at first, for the sun was invisible above the 
radiant haze. Then they cried out in aston- 
ishment as they saw more clearly the island 
of Ethne, their goal. 

The isle was not really large, a green 
hillock in the sea with a deep bay in its 
nearer coast. Around this bay clustered the 
shimmering structures of a city. But great- 
est wonder of Ethne was the gigantic geyser 
of water that sprang into the air from some 
pit or blovz-’hoie on its farther shore. 

That colossal waterspout sprang obliquely 



36 



WEIRD TALES 



across the whole island^ like the solid jet of 
a stupendous hose — a glittering, solid rain- 
bow of w ater that ardied across the isle and 
fell intf the sea just outside the harbor of 
the city. 

"The Island of the Waterspout!” Cullan 
whispered raptly. “Maeldun was here, long 
ago — and Cuchuiain — ” 

The boats ahead was racing straight to- 
ward the harbor. The plane taxiing after 
them, breasted big waves that came from the 
point where the gigantic jet fell into the sea. 

Like a Niagara falling from high heaven 
was that incredible jet! The thunder of it 
was deafening as they struggled past it, and 
the spray it flung high into the golden mist 
painted the air around it with dazzling, 
changing rainbows. 

Then they were past it, following the 
boats into the harbor. Before them lay 
ancient docks of yellow stone, fringed with 
a row of large and small metal craft. Be- 
yond rose the city Ethne. 

The golden mists were darkening, as 
though the sun above the haze v/as now 
setting. In the darkening mist, Ethne stood 
out like the faery city that legend had 
made it. 

Brian Cullan’s eyes climbed its structures 
— shimmering spherical buildings massed 
like congeries of iridescent soap-bubbles. 
City unreal as a dream and as beautiful — 
elfin city built beneath the titar arch of that 
eternal rainbow of water across the sky! 

Fand’s warriors pulled the amphibian up 
onto a worn stone ramp. The Tuathan 
princess met them when they emerged from 
the plane. 

"You go with me to my palacn,” she said. 
And then, noting Jeff Lewis’ dazed face, 
"And fear nothing.” 

Ethne’s streets were darkening, and 
lights were shining inside the semi-trans- 
lucent spheres of the soap-bubble buildings. 
Tall Tuatha lords and ladies in silk and 
silver stared incredulously at Cullan and 
Lewis as they climbed the winding yellow' 
streets behind Fand’s guards. 

Perfimie freighted, tlie air from gorgeous 
garaens that laced the city. There were 
many slaves or servants here, a race other 
than the Tuatha De, dark-faced and stocky. 

Fand’s palace loomed before them’ against 
the darkening haze, a piled, fragile-seeming 



mass of solid bubbles standing on the high- 
est ground of the city amid the foliage cf 
gardens. They followed her into a v/onder- 
ful, pure-white hall that Avas like the interior 
of a pearl. 

Fand stopped suddenly. Facing them was 
a Tuatha lord, a tall, fair, handsome young 
man. His gray eyes slitted as he stared at 
them. 

"Then the warrior who came ahead of 
you to me told truth, Fand,” he rasped. 
"You spared two outworlders who 
came into Tir Sorcha.” 

Tie uttered an oath as his eyes lit on 
Cullen’s face. "Now' I understand! That 
outworld dog Cuchuiain whom you loved 
— come back again!” 

His hand went to the hilt of his sword. 
Fand’s voice lashed like a whip of silver. 

"You forget, Mannanan, that two thou- 
sand outer years have passed since Cuchu- 
iain went from here.” 

Her husband glared. "Tlrat is true. But 
why then did you spare this one who so 
closely resembles Cuchuiain? They must 
be slain at once.” 

"7 am keeper of the Portal, not you!” she 
flared. "The outworlders do not die.” 

"The Lav / — /’ began Mannanan. 

"Do you cite the Law to me?” retorted 
Fand scornfully. "You who these many 
years have desired to break it, who have 
wished me to open the Portal to the out- 
world for your own evil schemes?” 

Mannanan hissed, "If I tell Lugh and the 
other lords of your transgression, you’ll not 
long be keeper of the Portal.” 

"Tell them,” Fand answered serenely, 
"and I’ll tell them of the plans you’ve 
long hatched to invade the outworld.” 

Ill 

M ANNANAN’ S handsome face became 
deadly. He turned on his heel, strode 
out of the pearl-hall followed by a fevt' 
Tuatha captains. 

Cullan looked after him rvorriedly. "If 
our coming has made trouble betv/een you 
and your husband — ” 

Fand laughed mirthlessly. "Mannanan 
has been m.y husband in but name, since 
Cuchuiain came here six years — ^two thou- 
sand years! — ^ago.” 



THE SHINING LAND 



37 



Het vibrant green eyes softened on his 
face. "Go now and rest, and fear noth- 
ing from Mannanan. Soon I will talk fur- 
ther with you.” 

Dark-faced servants escorted Culian and 
Lewis up a coiling, narrow stair that 
climbed from the rear of the pearl-hall to 
the upper levels of the bubble palace. They, 
were taken into an azure chamber that 
seemed hollowed out of sapphire. 

Windovv^s in the curving, translucent blue 
wall gave outlook on the darkening gardens 
below the palace, on the bubble-domes of 
Ethne and the harbor. The golden mists 
had changed to silver, the hazy sunlight now 
replaced by the light of hidden moons 
above the mist. The stupendous arc of the 
waterspouts was like a silver sword across 
the sky. 

"I think there’s something to drink in 
this thing, and I hope to God it's strong,” 
muttered Levds, picking up a silver flagon. 
He poured and tasted a yellow liquid. "It 
is — and I need it!” 

Then he came over and grasped Cullan’s 
arm. "Culian, stop staring out that window 
and come to life! What are we going to 
do!” 

Brian Culian turned reluctantly from his 
rapt, bemused contemplation of the other- 
worldly scene. "Do about what?” 

"About getting out of this world and 
back to Earth!” Lewis exclaimed. '"'iS^hat 
were Fand and her hard-eyed boyfriend 
arguing about?” 

Culian related the conversation. And 
Jeff Lewis’ broad face grew worried. 

"Then there’s danger here, not only for 
us, but for Earth. If Mannanan and his 
crowd are planning to go through into our 
world — ” 

He paced restlessly to and fro. "These 
people have powers. Those boats and shining 
swords imply control of atomic energy. The 
very fact that they can open a Portal be- 
tween two interpenetrating worlds argues 
great science and power.” 

His face hardened. "We’ve just spent 
years of toil and blood to whip Earth back 
into decent shape. And if there’s an inva- 
sion now from outside — ” 

Culian spoke slowly. "Even if Mannanan 
and his followers represent a menace, they 
can’t enter Earth v/hile Fand guards the 



Portal. It was apparenhthat she has long 
refused to open it for him.” 

"But she could open it for us,” Lewis 
said eagerly. "We could get back, then." 
He continued urgently. "You can get her 
to do it, Culian. I saw the way she looked 
at you. Earth or Tir Sorcha — a woman’s 
still a woman.” 

Brian Cullen was troubled. "I’m not so 
sure that I’d want to leave here and go back 
to Earth.” 

"Not to carry a warning of possible dan- 
ger?” Lewis prodded. "Not even for that?” 
Culian felt a chill. Lewis was right. The 
danger to Earth might be vague, potential 
— but it was real. 

A servant interrupted his thoughts. "You 
are to dine with the Princess,” he told 
Culian deferentially. "I will conduct you.” 
"Culian, now’s your chance!” Lewis said 
when he understood the invitation. "Induce 
her by any means to let us go back!” 
Culian nodded silently. But as he fol- 
lowed the servant down the curving corri- 
dors and the coiling stair of the softly lit 
palace, he felt a strong inner unwillingness. 

L eave this? Leave the wonder and 
beauty of Tir Sorcha to go back to war- 
exhausted Earth? Leave — ^Fand? 

"None of that,” he told himself roughly. 
"You’re nothing to her — just someone who 
reminds her of Cuchulain. And she’s not 
quite human — ” 

Not human? When he stepped out onto 
the silver-lit terrace where Fand awaited 
him, he had to concede that in her long, 
star-embroidered white gown, her elfin 
beauty was more than human. 

"We shall dine here,” she said. "I wish 
to talk more wfith you of Cuchulain.” 

He looked around. She interpreted his 
glance. "Mannanan is not here. He sulks 
with his captains in his own palace.” 
Black and silver dreamed the gardens be- 
low them, in the diffused mists of moon- 
lights. Lights softly starred the bubble 
domes of Ethne, and gliding lights crossed 
the harbor. 

From the great scimitar of the water- 
spout, shining across the slq^ overhead, came 
a steady whispering that could be heard 
even above the low, distant thunder v/here 
the cataract plunged into the sea. 



3S 



WEIRD TALES 



Land, slim fingers around a wine-glass, 
looked out over the supernally beautiful 
scene. "Your ancestor Cuchulain sat here 
thus with me the night before he left Tir 
Sorcha, only six years ago.” 

"Why did he ever go?” Cullan could not 
help wondering aloud. 

"He said that loyalty to his king, Conor 
mac Nessa, demanded that he return to 
Earth until the wars of his people were won. 
Then, he said, he would come back to Tir 
Sorcha and to me. But he did not come 
back.” 

"He was killed fighting the foes of his 
king,” Cullan told her. "He died, terrible 
in battle, tying himself upright to a tall 
stone so that he could strike still one more 
blow as he died.” 

Fand’s green eyes flashed. “Aye, that 
would be the way that Cuchulain would 
die!” 

She asked, a moment later, "What of the 
wife he told me of, the Earth girl Emer 
who had been mother of his son?” 

"Legend has it that Cuchulain never loved 
Emer in the same way after his return from 
Tir Sorcha,” admitted Cullan. 

"It would be so,” Fand said broodingly. 
"He would remember me, as I remembered 
him and kept hoping for his return even 
though hope died when I realized the cen- 
turies that had passed in your other world. 

"Nor could I go into Earth after him,” 
she continued somberly. "Long ago, my peo- 
ple the Tuatha Ete first went from our world 
into yours through the Portal my ancestors 
had learned to open. They first peopled 
your Earth! But their subjects there in time 
revolted against their wise rulers and so — it 
seems but a few score years to us! — Lugh, 
greatest of the Tuatha, and Dagda, and the 
other great ones came back into Tir Sorcha 
and decreed that no one should ever pass 
through the Portal again. 

"Yet Cuchulain and a few others of Earth 
took advantage of chance openings of the 
Portal to come into this world. Cuchulain 
won my love, and Mannanan’s hate, and 
then left promising to return. And when he 
did not return, I could not transgress my 
duty as keeper of the Portal to go after him. 

I could only wait and hope that somehow 
he would return. And now he has returned!” 

Cullan was startled. He stood up, and 



Fand too had risen and was swaying toward 
him. Her eyes burned him, her face breath- 
less. 

He was only human. He found his arms 
around her, his lips against the intoxicating 
perfume of her mouth. Then he stumbled 
back. 

"Not me,” he said thickly. "Not me you 
love, but Cuchulain that’s dead two thou- 
sand years.” 

Fand’s small white hands clutched his 
shoulders almost fiercely. "You are Cuchu- 
lain! Time has worked its cycle in the out- 
world, and you are the Hound reborn again, 
and come back again to me.” 

Crazy, impossible delusion of a brooding 
woman? Be it what it might, the fierce 
kisses of Fand were sweet! 

"Tell me, have you an Emer waiting for 
you in the outv/orld?” she whispered, white 
arms still around his neck. 

Cullan thought of the girl in America 
who had given him a half -promise, but she 
was faraway and unreal now as a dream. 

"I’ll not be loved for my chance resem- 
blance to a long-dead man!” he said vio- 
lently. "I’m not Cuchulain, I’m Brian Cul- 
lan, and — ” 

A servant came plunging out onto the ter- 
race and Fand turned angrily at the inter- 
ruption. 

The man’s swarthy face was livid. He 
cried, "Mannanan and his captains attack — ” 

Death-shriek rang eerily from inside the 
dreaming bubble-palace at the same mo- 
ment. Wolf -fierce yells of shouting men and 
the rushing of feet and clashing of swords 
exploded in the silver silence. 

Fand whirled, her face a white flame of 
wrath. "He dares! For years, Mannanan 
and his plotters have coveted the Portal to 
the outv/orld, and now he dares attack 
openly — ” 

She grasped Cullan’s wrist. "This way, 
and quickly! They must not reach the cham- 
ber of the Portal!” 

The whole palace, all of Ethne, was now 
a hideous clamor as Mannanan’s armored 
soldiers poured through the silver-lit gar- 
dens in swift onrush. 

Cullan raced with the Tuathan princess, 
aroimd the base of the palace and into it by 
another door. They entered the back of the 
shining pearl-hall. 



THE SHIMNG LAND 



S9 



Callan glimpsed Mannanan and his men 
pouring in against Land’s guards. Swords 
were Sashing — swords that flamed with 
charges of destroying force. The merest 
touch of those swords sent men falling in 
dead, blasted heaps! 

"Retreat up the stair!” Land’s voice cried 
to her guards like a silver trumpet. "Guard 
the chamber of the Portal!’’ 

There was a mad, scrambling confusion 
across the cool loveliness of the shining hall, 
as the outnumbered soldiers of Land gave 
back toward the stair. 

Cullan reached and snatched up a sword 
from a dead man’s hand. ’The weapon was 
light as a rapier, its blade shining with that 
deadly force. 

"Kill that outworlder!” roared Manna- 
nan’s voice through the fight. "Seize Land!” 

A sword struck like a lightning-bolt to- 
ward Cullan as he swung Land behind him 
to the stair. 

C ULLAN parried and struck with the 
half-forgotten skill of fencing taught 
him at his university five years before. His 
blade slithered past the opposing rapier and 
touched his Tuathan enemy’s arm. 

The man dropped without a groan, his 
whole side blasted and withered by the de- 
stroying touch of tlie charged sword. 

"Up the stair!” Land cried. "Mannanan 
has suborned my soldiers — we have only 
this palace guard.” 

There began a crazy retreat up the coil- 
ing stairway, past level after level of the 
palace. Land’s few guards were holding 
the steps stubbornly, barring the narrocv, 
way to Mannanan’s hordes. 

"The Tuatha possess other and more 
powerful weapons than these swords, but 
Mannanan dares not use them lest he destroy 
the palace and the Portal with it,” Land was 
crying to Cullan. "If w'e can hold them — ” 
Jeff Lewis’ wild face thrust between them. 
"Cullan, what is it? "What’s happening?” 
"Mannanan and his bunch are trying to 
seize the controls of the Portal, whatever it 
is,” Cullan rasped. 

"My God!” exclaimed Lewis. "If that 
happens — ” 

Cullan heard no more, for one of Land’s 
soldiers had fallen directly below him on 
the stair. He leaped in to fill the gap. 



Deadly, shining blades clicked and clashed 
on each other all across the stair. Men 
touched by them fell as though struck by 
lightning. Cullan felt old fencing skill com- 
ing back to him in the desperate fight. 

But they v.'ere being forced back upvzard 
despite the blasted corpses with which tire)’ 
had strewed the steps. Up past level above 
level of the palace, until behind and above 
the defenders lay the end of the stair. 

The stair opened up onto the roof of tire 
topmost bubble-dome of the palace! Sunken 
in that roof was a round recess open to the 
misty moonlight, a windy, lofty enclosure 
containing a great mechanism which flashed 
and glittered. 

The thing was a giant crystal similar in 
shape to the tiny crystal in Cullan’s ring. But 
this one was huge, mounted in massive 
framework and gimbals of gold, and sur- 
rounded by an intricate pattern of similarly 
mounted smaller crystals. 

Land cried wildly to Cullan, as Manna- 
nan’s triumph-shouting hordes pressed them 
back at the narrow entrance of this chamber 
of the Portal. 

"The Portal is lost unless I call for heln! 
But the only ones whom I can call to aid 
will deal death to yosij” 

"Do anything, to save the Portal from 
that devil!” husked Brian Cullan. 

Mannanan yelled fiercely from back in ' 
the press of the attackers. "Slay that out- 
v/orlder, quickly!” 

Cullan stabbed and struck. The light, 
deadly sword was almost exactly like the 
rapiers he had once used in fencing. And 
the supernal necessity of holding the at- 
tackers nerved him. 

He parried thrusts of blades whose touch 
v/as destruction, and loosed destruction him- 
self by the sw/ift flash and dip and .stab of 
his shining weapon. Blasted bodies now 
choked the narrow doorway. 

Yet another of Land’s guards went down, 
and now only three of them were left to 
fight beside him, v.dth Lev/is standing ready 
behind him to replace the next who fell. He 
caught a glimpse of Land, standing by the 
edge of the great crystal machine with her 
white arms raised toward the night, her 
face strange and masklike in the silver iigh::. 

Another of the men beside Cullan 'went 
down. Triumphant roar of voices broke 



40 



WEIRD TALES 



from the attackers as they surged forward 
for a last onrush. They would break through, 
this time — 

Something clicked in Brian Cullan’s brain. 
Something made the sword in his hand sud- 
denly flash with a swiftness and skill of 
which he had irever been capable. 

And as though from remote distances he 
heard his own voice roaring battle-challenge 
to the attackers before him. That terrible 
battle-cry rose raving above the din of the 
fight. 

"Who comes against me?” Cullan heard 
his own voice roaring. “Who comes to kill 
the Hound of Cullan, the champion of the 
Red Branch, the slayer of Ferdia and the 
Calatin Clan? Who comes against Cuchu- 
lain?" 

For he was Cuchulain now, as he fought. 
Except for one corner of his brain that 
watched wonderingly, he was another man 
— man berserk with battle, a man who 
took fierce delight in slaying. 

"I am Cuchulain the Hound and I’ve 
killed Tuatha before! Come meet me, Man- 
nanan!” 

N ever later would Cullan be able to 
decide whether ancestral personality 
had come out of the dim chambers of mem- 
ory to dominate his body, or whether it was 
merely knowledge of the old legends that 
obsessed his mind in this supreme moment. 

Red battle-madness v/as rocking his brain 
and he never could remember more than a 
glittering net of swords weaving death 
around him but not quite touching him, as 
he held Mannanan’s warriors back. And 
then, suddenly, the warriors before him re- 
coiled, staring wildly past him. 

“The sign!” yelled a hoarse voice among 
his attackers. "The sign of Lugh!” 

The crimson mists cleared somehow from 
Cullan’s brain. He glanced and saw that 
around and above the whole palace a wheel 
of silent lightnings were playing. A wheel 
of fire, sign of Lugh, greatest of the Tuatha 
De. 

The wheel narrov/ed, and bolts darted 
from it toward the roofless chamber of the 
Portal. And in that blaze of silent light- 
ning suddenly stood men, tall, grave, un- 
humanly calm. 

Men? No men could have appeared thus 



magically. Cullan’s twentieth-century knowl- 
edge told him that he was seeing merely 
images projected from a distance in answer 
to Fand’s telepathic call for help. 

But dread images, these! Lugh, tall, 
grave, solemn, his somber, wrinkled face 
and his form wreathed with silent little 
lightnings, and giant, terrible-eyed Dagda, 
and a half-dozen others — ^gods of the old 
Celts, lords of the Tuatha De, the science- 
kings of two worlds once. 

Lugh— or the projected image of Lugh 
— spoke in deep voice to the frozen attack- 
ers. "What evil is it ye do here, following 
Mannanan in lust for conquest of the out- 
world? Know ye not that such has been for- 
bidden since I ordered closed the way be- 
tween the worlds?” 

Lightnings from the flaming wheel around . 
the palace flashed threateningly toward the 
warrior hordes in the palace and gardens. 

"Flee — Lugh’s vengeance strikes!” went 
up the mad cry, and Mannanan’s warriors 
turned frantically in flight. 

But Mannanan darted forward, handsome 
face blind-mad with hate, his shining sword 
stabbing at Brian Cullan. 

"At least you will perish, outworlder!” 

Cullan turned — too late to parry that 
deadly blade. But a sword stabbed past him 
and ripped into Mannanan’s throat. The 
Tuathan lord fell, face blackening and 
blasted. 

Cullan whirled. Fand, shuddering, 
dropped the sword. "He would have slain 
you, Cuchulain!” she choked. 

"Too much of slaying has there been be- 
cause of these outworlders whom your faith- 
lessness let enter Tir Sorcha!” rang Lugh’s 
stern voice to her. "'The men must die, be- 
fore they cause more evil.” 

Fand swung herself in front of Cullan. 
"No!” she cried. "If you kill them, you 
must kill me also! Or I will shatter the 
Portal you gave me to guard, and open the 
way once more!” 

A stir went through the Tuathan lords. 

Astonishment and anger rang in Lugh’s 
voice. "Are you mad, Fand? The men are 
outworlders and they cannot stay here.” 
“Then let them go back through the Por- 
tal to their own world!” she pleaded des- 
perately. 



THE SHINING LAND 



Lugh frowned. "It is not well for the 
outworld ,to learn of Tir Sorcha from them.” 

"They would not be believed if they 
told,” she insisted. "Two thousands out- 
world years have passed since we Tuatha De 
left Earth, and ail is but myth and legend 
now.” 

Lugh finally made a sign of assent. "So 
be it, then. But they must go at once, Fand. 
Open the Portal and send them forth.” 

Fand turned. Wide, brilliant green eyes 
looked up into Cullan's face as for a mo- 
ment she clmig to him. 

“Cuchulain — ^twice found, twice lost,” 
she whispered. "You must go. It is that, or 
death.” 

"I’ll come back,” he said hoarsely. "Some- 
day, somehow. I’ll find a way back in spite 
of all their Laws.” 

"Let the outworlders go, Fand,” rolled 
Lugh’s command, stern and urgent. 

She thrust Cullan from her, with shaking 
hands. "Go quickly to your flying boat. 
When the Portal opens, the crystal on your 
finger will take you through.” 

She turned and blindly touched a control- 
stud by the side of the great machine. The 
giant crystal began slowly to turn in its 
gimbals, and the smaller stones around it 
turned also, faster and faster. 

It was Lewis whoui^.i the dazed, ago- 
nized Cullan down tire death-littered stair of 
the palace, by main force. 

"We’ve got to get to the plane quickly! 
Our only chance to get back!” 

Palace and streets of Etline were deserted 
as death, as the people cowered in fear 



4i 

from the flaming sign of Lugh over the 
palace. 

The amphibian was still drawn up at the 
edge of the stone ramp. As they scrambled 
inside it, the ring upon Cullan’s finger had 
begun once more to glow like a tiny, spin- 
ning sun. 

Abruptly, everything dissolved in swirl- 
ing mist. 'Ihey felt a shattering shock. 'Tlien 
the plane rocked w'iidly, battered by big 
waves. 

Sunlight — normal yellow afternoon sun- 
light streamed upon them through the cabin 
windows. The amphibian was floating in 
the gray-green Atlantic beneath blue sky. 
They had come back through the Portal to 
Earth. 

Cullan looked about them, dazedly. "Tit 
Sorcha — and Fand — ^here a moment ago! 
Here, right beside us!” 

Shining Land, lost elysium, moon-misted 
Etline and princess of the old gods, gone, 
gone — 

"Months must have passed in the half- 
day we were in there!” Lewis was exclaim- 
ing excitedly. "We’ll have to tell people 
that we’ve been floating all that time. 'They’d 
never believe the truth.” 

His eyes gripped Cullan’s. "IFas it true, 
Cullan? I’m beginning to doubt already 
that it was only a dream!” 

Cullan looked down at the crystal on his - 
finger, Fand’s gift to Cuchulain of old and 
to him. Tears blurred his eyes. 

"It was no dream. Someday, even if it 
means death. I’m going to find my way 
back to her.” 





egend of 228 



By HAROLD LAV/LOR 



T here was someone living on the 
fourth floor of the frame dwell- 
ing place at 228 South Railroad 
Avenue. The first three floors were vacant. 



and so, presumably, was the fourth. But 
there was someone, or something — 

The Valley, whispering, thought it was 
something. Sometliing not human. 



Heading by A. R. TILBURNE 

You keep thinking there’s someone, something, up there under the roof 
listening, making plans 



42 



THE LEGEND OF 228 



43 



For quite a while now the gaunt gray 
structure iri its scabrous paint had been a 
place to be avoided. Lights were to be seen 
flickering from its upper story, and strange 
guttural mutterings were said to issue from 
it. But no one investigated. The Valley be- 
lieved in letting well enough— or ill enough 
— alone. 

You probably don’t know the "Valley” — 
even if you live here. It isn’t really a valley 
at all. Roughly oae-lialf mile in length, it’s 
a two-block-wide depression between ele- 
vated railroad embanlonents at either side. 
Hence the name. Ironically. 

Its inhabitants- — ^middle-Europeans for the 
most part, originally — ^have so kept to them- 
selves and inter-married as to be almost a 
race apart. The Qty itself pays no attention 
to the Valley at its heart, isolated as it is by 
the embankments at either side, by railroad 
yards to the north, and Lake Wasco to the 
south, foul with the outpourings of the fac- 
tories lining its shore. 

Perhaps the City has forgotten it. 

Vida Bede hated the Valley from the first, 
and everybody in it. And her hatred was 
cordially returned. She was that cooch dancer 
from a traveling street carnival whom Sam 
Beck had married. Or perhaps Vida had 
married him. They wouldn’t put it past her. 
Married him for his pink shirts w'hich were 
silk, and for the huge diamond that glit- 
tered on the little finger of his hairy left 
hand. 

He was a good man, Sam Beck. Thrifty, 
and prosperous for the district. He ran the 
local grocery store and did some banking 
on the side. The Valley trusted him. But 
that wife of his! With her rope-colored 
hair, and her bad eyes, and her sultry m.outh, 
like a wine-red wound in her white face. 
That Vida! 

The women made tongue - and - teeth 
sounds. And muttered among themselves. 

'The men said nothing. They only stared, 
wet-lipped. 

T WAS from Sam that Vida first heard 
the story of the dog and the terrible 
tenant in 228. 

He was sitting at the kitchen table in his 
undershirt, sucking up coffee noisily from 
die thick v/hite cup. 

"They was on the other side of the street, 



these kids,” he said, "when they seen the 
dog go in.” 

Vida slammed the coffee pot down on 
the greasy stove, wiped her hands down the 
front of her housecoat, and sank listlessly 
into the chair opposite Sam. Look at him 
there. Dribbling and spitting in his excite- 
ment. Agh! He made her sick. 

She hated him — this greasy, stingy little 
man she had married. And she thought: If 
she could only get her hands on his money! 
It wasn’t the first time this thought had 
occurred to her. But she had to be careful. 
She had to take it slow. She wouldn’t want 
Sam or the cops coming after her. 

"Pretty soon,” Sam was spitting, "these 
kids, they hear this dog snarlin’ and growlin’ 
like he’s fightin’ wit’ somep’n. Then he give 
a kind of yelp, they says — real high, like 
screamin’.” 

Vida stirred restlessly. Sometimes she felt 
it would be better if she just got Sam out 
of the way altogether, first. If she could 
do it safely. If she could only meet some 
guy, not too bright, w'ho’d do it for her. 

"Somp’n comes flyin’ out the fourt’ floor 
winda, then — all cut and mashed up. All 
horrible.” Sam, shuddering, paused dra- 
matically. He whispered, "h the dogl” 

W ELL, what did he want her to do, faint? 

He had too-eager eyes, Sam. Made you 
want to kick him like you would a cur. De- 
liberately, to spoil his pleasure, Vida took, a 
long, slow sip of coffee. She raised an eye- 
brow, lazily. 

"So what?” she said. 

Sam looked crestfallen, but he explained 
patiently, "Is someone Ihht’ on the fourt’ 
floor there. Or some Thing. Something — ■ 
awful!” He stared at her, round-eyed. 

Vida sniffed. "Well, why don’t somebody 
go over there, then, and find out who it is? 
Or what?” 

"Is all scared,” Sam defended. "All the 
people in the Valley, they no go near the 
place. They afraid.” 

"Dumb slobs,” Vida sneered. Her favor- 
ite epitliet for the Valley dwellers. It was 
like them to be scared about nothing. Catch 
her believing such a dopey yarn. 

But she remembered the story. And the 
fear that kept the Valleyites away from 228. 
It came in handy, later on. 



44 



WEIRD TALES 



r HERE was nothing to do, daytimes, in 
this lousy place. You could walk up 
Railroad ’Avenue and back again. That was 
all. A hell of a thrill, that was. It served 
one purpose, though. It annoyed Sam. 

"Why you all the time walk up and down, 
up and down?” he asked plaintively. 

Vida stared at his thick lips. "You don’t 
like it, you know what you can do.” 

And though he wasn’t there to see, she 
always went by the cigar store in low gear. 
She liked skin-tight, knee-high dresses. And 
no stodcings on her shapely legs. She enjoyed 
the little stir she created among the male 
loungers there. They could look, but she 
made it plain they aroused no interest in 
return. It pleased her to let her own glance 
trail indifferently over them, then flick away. 

Until the afternoon that Joe Ross was 
-there among them. 

That wasn’t his real name, of course. His 
own name was so full of c’s and z’s and v’s 
that the Valley had been forced in self- 
defense to shorten it to Ross. He was a no- 
good, a low-life, a bum. Handsome, though. 
You had to say that for him. There was 
something about the insolent stare of his 
fig-colored eyes that made the girls of the 
Valley tuck in stray wisps of hair self-con- 
sciously when they saw him, and giggle more 
than usual. 

He’s been away. 

"Where ya been, Joe?” the boys asked. 
"Oh, around.” Tie gestured vaguely. "Just 
bummin’ around.” 

Thrown out of the Army, maybe. If, in- 
deed, he’d ever got in. And now he was 
back. Now you could see him on the street, 
talking listlessly to some agitated seventeen- 
year-old girl. Elena Ostrowski, perhaps. Un- 
til an angry female voice would call. "Elena, 
you come here, lilce I say! I tell your Pa on 
you, you be sorry, I betcha!” Humiliated 
tears in Elena’s eyes, then. And Joe — 
Sometimes he’d make a rude sound with 
his lips in the direction of the worried 
maternal voice. But mostly he just smiled. 
His eyes didn’t smile, though. His eyes were 
never amused, or even interested. 

Tliey say the only time his eyelids lifted 
above half-mast was the first time he saw 
Vida Beck. 

'Their glances caught and held. It was 
almost as if they exchanged a silent message. 



She faltered in her insolent step. His band 
v/ith the cigarette halted halfway to his lips. 
The other men there stirred uneasily, vaguely 
sensing drama. It was like a show, kind of. 
You kept watching to see what would hap- 
pen next. 

Then Vida’s eyelids dropped, and she 
went on. Joe squashed his cigarette under 
his shoe, and followed her without a word. 
That was the way it began. 

S HE couldn’t let him come to the fiat over 
the grocery store, for Sam would be sure 
to see him . But she remembered tire lonely 
house at 228 South Railroad Avenue. She 
could meet Joe there, afternoons. 

He didn’t like the suggestion much, when 
.she first made it. "There?” he protested half- 
heartedly. "But lis’en — ” 

So he’d he.ard the story already? 

She leaned against him. "Don’t tell me 
you’re like the rest of the dumb dopes around 
here. Believing that crazy stuff — ” 

But she was not displeased at his unwill- 
ingness. It seemed to prove diat he was just 
as she had sized him up at first glance. 
Handsome and vain and stupid. He would 
be ideal for her purpose. Just give her a 
little time. 

He was crazy about her from the begin- 
ning, but he never grew used to the gaunt 
old house. There were times v/hen he’d take 
his mouth from hers, and raise his head, 
and listen. But there was never anything to 
be heard but silence — a sinister silence, it 
seemed, as if the house had paused just then 
to listen too. 

"It gets you, kind of,” Joe whispered 
once. "I keep thinking there’s someone, or 
something, up there under the roof. Listen- 
ing to us. Making plans, maybe. To use 
later on. To catch us when we’re not care- 
ful.” 

Vida didn’t like it when he talked like 
that. His husicy hesitant voice, his flickering 
light eyes — Honest, it was enough to give 
you the meemies, she thought irritably. But 
she was careful not to let him see she 
minded. 

They used to meet in the living room 
of the first floor flat. Someone had left a 
few pieces of furniture not worth moving 
away — a rickety cliair or two, a table. They 
always used the back entrance, coming sep- 



THE LEGEND OF 228 



arately so that no one might see them to- 
gether. Once there, they were almost certain 
to be free from interruption. For who would 
ever come? 

But one day someone did. 

I T WAS Joe who first heard the footsteps. 

He was off the daybed like a cat. Going 
to the scarred oak door giving on tire hail, 
he opened it the merest crack. 

Vida saw his face change. He stood there 
quite a while, motionless, until at last un- 
bearable curiosity drove her to join him. 
“Who is it?” she whispered. 

“The Prohaska kid. He went upstairs.” 
“We better keep quiet and watch until he 
leaves,” Vida said. "If he sees us here, he’ll 
spread it all over the neighborhood.” 

She remembered Sam had said it was 
Johnny Prohaska’s dog that had been thrown 
that day from the fourth floor window. She 
supposed the kid had been crazy about the 
mutt. 

And now he had forgotten his fear of 
the house enough to come back — perhaps 
with some idea of revenge. 

She and Joe could hear nothing, but they 
waited fifteen minutes or so. Vida wanted 
to go up and investigate then, but Joe said, 
"The punk probably went out the back way. 
Maybe he’s out in front by now.” 

They closed the door finally, and Vida 
went to the window and drew back the tat- 
tered shade far enough to see out. Johnny 
was nowhere in sight, but there was a little 
knot of women aa'oss the street, clustered 
about someone that Vida couldn’t see. Their 
voices were low, but from their violent ges- 
tures it could almost be guessed that they 
were attempting to dissuade someone from 
rash action of some sort. 

Joe came to stand behind Vida. He was 
tall enough to look over her head. “Who is 
■it?” 

“Sh!” Vida said. 

The knot of women untied, and they saw 
Johnny Prohaska’s mother at its center. 

“He go in there to see what hurt his dog. 
He ain’t come out.” Mrs. Prohaska looked 
threateningly about. “I go to get him. Ain’t 
nobody can stop me.” 

They all grabbed at her, but she broke 
free and ran straight for the door of 228. 
No one followed. No one seemed to dare. 



45 

They just stood there and watdred, open- 
mouthed. 

Vida held a finger to her lips as Mrs, 
Prohaska pounded through the hall, but Joe 
didn’t need the \varning. They continued to 
keep an eye on the women outside, but tliey 
listened to the sound of Mrs. Prohaska’s feet 
mounting the stairs. They waited for what 
would happen next. 

There were no screams by way of prelude. 
But suddenly they heard the heavy fall of 
Mrs. Prohaska’s footsteps racing dotm the 
uncarpeted wooden stairs of 228. They 
heard her stumble through the hall, then 
saw her burst from the door, her hair 
streaming witchlike behind her, her face 
working madly. ' 

“Oh, oh, oh!” They could hear her sob- 
bing softly, like the cooing of pigeons from 
a distant cote. “Oh, oh, oh!” 

"What’s eating her, anyway?” Joe forgot 
to whisper. 

Vida didn’t answer. Puzzled, she watched 
the wildly gesticulating Mrs. Prohaska. The 
woman was running about the street now in 
crazy circles, like a bug tormented by a 
lighted match held near. 

"She’s gone crazy,” Joe said. "Whatever 
she saw — ” 

Two of her friends finally broke free 
from the paralysis of fear that seemed to 
hold them, and caught Mrs, Prohaska. She 
appeared to be sightless. And her lips were 
uttering only a meaningless gabble. The 
women who held her stared horrified, then 
turned aside as though in revulsion. 

Mrs. Prohaska, released, stood stupidly 
for a minute, weaving from side to side. 
Then she turned and ran, erratically but true, 
back to the door of 228. The others in the 
street screamed, but Mrs. Prohaska ran on, 
almost eagerly, as if to a lovers’ meeting. 

Again the tenement swallowed her bulky 
figure. Again Vida and Joe heard her stum- 
ble through the hall and up the stairs. 

But she didn’t come down again. Though 
they waited for long minutes, she didn’t 
come down again. 

There wasn’t a sound. 

Joe seemed badly shaken, but Vida had 
an explanation. 

“Nuts,” she said. "Mrs. Prohaska beat it 
out the back way, too, after putting on that 
act. You know what? I bet the Prohaskas 



46 



'WEIRD TALES 



want to buy this dump, and they’ve started 
all this talk and stuff to run the price down. 
You wait and see. They’ll be laughing at 
ever/'body yet.” 

Joe didn’t appear convinced, but Vida let 
it go at that. 'They had to wait a long time 
before the little crowd of frightened women 
aaoss the street finally drifted away. 

Joe and Vida sneaked out the rear door 
then, but a block away they looked back at 
the house. The late afternoon sun shone 
brilliantly, but the dreary tenement at 228 
lay in shadow. Joe pointed this out. Pointed 
out too, significantly, that there was no other 
building or anything near to cast the shadow 
on 22S. 

As though the darkness emanated from 
the leaning frame pile itself, like evil mist 
from a swamp. 

Vida only shrugged, annoyed. She sup- 
posed she’d have an awful time getting Joe 
to meet her there after this. 

A fter supper that night, Sam was full 
of the story of Mrs. Prohaska and her 
son. He babbled and spat until, Vida 
thought, he v/as like to drive her nuts. It 
wasn’t enough that she had seen the thing 
herself that afternoon. Now she had to 
ihten to it, too. God, but she was fed up 
witli Sam. If she didn’t think of some way, 

soon, to get rid of him ! 

He finally finished the story at last and 
waited, bug-eyed, for her com.ment. She told 
him the same thing she’d told Joe. The Pro- 
haskas w'anted to buy a house, cheap. But for 
once she couldn’t drive Sam into abashed 
silence. 

"Why for the Prohaskas buy a house? 
They got a house,” he pointed out with irre- 
futable logic. "Besides, where are they now? 
Nobody’s seen ’em.” He shook his shiny 
b.aid head sagely. "Ain’t nobody ever gonna 
live in 228 again. Ain’t nobody ever goin’ 
in there again. Not, and come out.” 

He looked up then nervously, obviously 
afraid to see what effect this brash contra- 
diction might be having on Vida. But, sur- 
prisingly, she was smiling and nodding her 
tawny head in a pleased sort of way. 

"That’s right, Sam,” she said softly. "No- 
body who goes in there is ever coming out 
again. Everybody kaov/s that now. The 
whole Valley knows it, don’t they?’’ 



"Yeah,” Sam said, and looked pleased to 
see that for once Vida agreed with him. 

Vida’s eyes were shining. It was perfect! 
And to think that Sam himself had shown 
her the way! 

Sometimes, Vida thought, she had to 
laugh. 

S HE was afraid maybe she’d have a little 
trouble persuading Joe. But in its way, 
indirecL'ly, the house at 228 helped her there, 
too. For Joe met her there again "only just 
this once. ’ He was afraid of the house. He’d 
had enough of it. He v.'anted her to run 
away with him. 

"Why do we hang around here for, any- 
way?” he asked. He looked around the 
dirty room, and seemed to cock a listening 
ear toward the upper floor. "We stay in the 
Valley, this is the only place we can meet. 
Let’s blow.” 

Vida veiled her eyes that he might not 
see tlie swift exultation there. This was 
going to be easier than she’d thought. 

"You got the money?” she asked, though 
she Icnew what his answer would be. 

"No.” 

She looked at him thoughtfully, then. She 
waited a minute before she said slowly, 
"Sam has. Sam has a lot.” 

"Well?” 

She moved closer to Joe. "Something 
could happen to Sam. He could fall, maybe. 
Or — or hurt his head, real bad.” 

Joe said nothing. Wasn’t he ever going 
to get it? Did she have to draw a picture? 

She kept the irritation out of her voice. 
"Maybe he’d die. Maybe his body would gc i: 
into one of those empty freight cars on th:.- 
siding, bade of the house. It might be a long 
time before they found it, you know. The 
car might be in Arizona by then, or Cali- 
fornia, of anywheres.” 

Joe said, "And by that time they wouldn’t 
know where he’d come from. Or even who 
he was.” 

Vida’s arms slipped around his neck. 
"That’s right.” 

Joe had an objection. “But, look. The 
people around here, they’re going to wonder 
where Sam went all of a sudden.” 

"Oh, no, tliey ain’t.” She had all she 
could do to keep from laughing. This was 
the best part. This was the joke. "We’ll see 



THE LEGEND OF 228 



47 



to it that someone tells them Sam came here 
— but didn’t come out,” 

Under her hands she could feel Joe’s body 
begin to shake. He got it. He was laughing, 
too. Pretty soon he’d think the whole thing 
was his idea. Well, that was okay with her. 

She felt his body stiffen. 

"But, look,” he said. "Why not let Sam 
come here and go upstairs, instead of me — 
killing him?” 

She wanted to scream at him, “Because, 
stupid, there isi'dt anything up there!” He 
believed in the horror on the fourth floor, 
just lilce the rest of the saps around here. 
With an effort she kept her voice honeyed. 
"Wild horses wouldn’t drag Sam up there, 
and you know it. Besides, even if he went 
we wouldn’t know — we couldn’t be sure 
he was dead. But if you come over to my 
place tonight — ” 

She had her way, for Joe finally snickered. 
“Okay, I’d like to meet your husband.” 

"And he’ll be dying to meet you,” Vida 
said. 

That set them laughing again. But pres- 
ently they stopped, and Joe’s parted lips met 
hers fiercely. 

Even while she strained closer to him, 
Vida thought, "Dumb slob! You dumb slob, 
you!” Once Sam was out of the way and she 
had the money, she’d get rid of Joe. She’d 
be free. She. was smart. There wouldn’t be 
anything she couldn’t do. 

Joe pulled away from her so suddenly 
that she v/as afraid he’d guessed her 
thoughts. But he was only listening, his 
head bent. 

"Sh!” he whispered. "I heard something, 
just then — upstairs.” 

Oh, for God’s — ! She pulled away from 
him. Annoyed, she caught his hand. "Come 
on! Let’s go up and see what’s there and 
settle this, once and for all.” 

He would have hung back, but at the ill- 
concealed contempt in her eyes he went to 
the hall with her. Together they mounted 
the stairs. But they only went to the third 
floor. There, even Vida halted. They heard 
a soft slurring sound of motion coming from 
above them. But it wasn’t tlrat that drove 
them down again. 

It was the smell. The horrible stench 
seeping down from the fourth floor. 

Joe’s forehead went shiny with sweat. 



Joe’s hand on her arm forced her down the 
stairs again. 

“Whew!” she said, once again in the 
front room on tlie first floor. “Dead rats?” 

Joe kept looking over his shoulder into 
the hall. He didn’t say anything. 

She laughed at him, after that. He saw 
the contempt in her eyes, and he resented it. 
He tried to laugh, too, and conceal his fear. 
But she knew he was terrified of the house. 

Perhaps she remembered diat, later on. 
Perhaps she even had time to think, when it 
was too late, "But I’m the one who should 
have been afraid!” 

AM never knew what hit him. 

But it was — ^pretty terrible. Vida 
hadn’t loiown how horrible it would sound 
— the hammer crashing down on that shiny 
defenseless skull. To make it worse, Joe had 
gone on wielding the hammer long after it 
had seemed necessary, long after Vida had 
whispered thickly past the sickness in her 
throat, "Stop. Stop, Joe, that’s enough!” 

Joe’s lips were drawn back in a grimace 
like a dreadful laugh. His eyes were ab- 
sorbed. It seemed hours before he heard her 
and that uncomprehending look faded from 
his queer light eyes. It frightened her, that 
look. For the first time, Joe seemed other 
than a stupid tool whom she could maneuver 
as she wished. 

"What’s the matter?” Joe asked. "You 
look scared.” Plainly it pleased him. He 
went on, as if he’d made a discovery, "You 
thought I’d be scared, like I was in 228 . 
Sure, I was afraid there. I’m afraid of 
anything I can’t see, or understand, or put 
my hands on. You thought it was funny.” 
He weighed the hammer in his hand. "Why 
aren’t you laughing now, Vida?” His eyes 
lifted to where she v/as crouching against 
the opposite wall. 

Her narrov/ red tongue flicked out to wet 
her lips. But she couldn’t say anything. 

Joe laughed strangely. "I’m the boss 
now,” he said. 

She straightened at that. The queer look 
was gone from his eyes. She’d tell him 
where to head in. “Look here — she began. 

But Joe was absorbed in the diamond on 
Sam’s little finger. 

"It don’t come off,” Vida said sullenly, 
diverted for the moment. "Sam told me, 




48 



WEIRD TALES 



iiioie than once. Mrs. Ostrowski knew it, 
too. She thought it was a good joke on me, 
because she knew how bad I wanted it.” 

She .brought soap and water with which to 
attempt easing the ring off. But it me.ant 
touching Sam. She shuddered and went 
about it so gingerly that Joe pushed her 
aside. 

"I’ll do it. Get out of my way,” he 
ordered. 

But the ring defied his every effort. Vida 
was all for letting it go, however reluctantly. 
She was nervous. She wanted Sam’s body 
safely out of the house. And quickly. But 
Joe said, "I’ll get it off, by God, if — ” - 

He slammed down the inner stairway to 
the grocery store beneath the flat. When he 
came back, he had Sam’s black tin cash box 
under his arm. In his free hand, he held a 
meat saw. 

Vida’s eyes widened and her "Oh ko, 
Joe!” was a sigh of horror. Still it had to be 
done. But did Joe have to look like he was 
enjoying it? 

She turned away, trying to close her ears 
to the hideous sounds the saw was making. 
When the dreadful noise finally stopped, 
and she could bring herself to look again, 
the diamond w'ss winking at her from Joe’s 
hand. 

And Joe was smiling at her blandly. A 
smile that only increased her uneasiness. 

had never been so glad before to see 
O the sunrise. In the kitchen of the flat 
above the grocery store, Vida stood at the 
v/indow overlooking the railroad siding. 

That had been the one danger. That the 
cars might stay for days on the siding, as 
they sometimes did. But it v/as empty now, 
and the cars, including the one that was serv- 
ing as Sam’s temporary tomb, were gone. 

During the night, switch engines had 
panted, and couplings had locked, as men 
shouted in hoarse voices. Vida had heard 

For all she remembered, someone else 
might have helped Joe spirit Sam’s body 
dov/a the stairs and up the embankment to 
the dark red freight car. There was only this 
dull aclae in her shoulder from Sam’s dead 
weight to remind her it had been she. There 
were only the cuts and bruises on the soles 
of her feet from the gravel that had slipped 



into her sandals as they struggled up the 
embankment. She’d never felt the pain 
until this morning. 

Joe came out of the bedroom behind her, 
.and slipped his arms around her. She tried 
not to let him see how tense she grew under 
his hands. She was afraid of them, and of 
him. It would be so easy for those hands to 
slide around her neck — 

She forced herself to turn around and 
face him. He must have noticed her cring- 
ing, for he was smiling in a satisfied way. 
But his eyes remained cold and mirthless. 

"I better beat it out of here vAile it’s 
still early,” he said. "I’ll get hold of Elena 
Ostrowski and tell her to spread it around 
that she seen Sam going into 228 last night, 
but she didn’t see him come out. She’ll do it 
— for five bucks.” 

Vida stirred. "One is enough.” 

"I said five,” Joe repeated, too pleasantly. 
"I’ve opened Sam’s cash box- — ” 

She came to life then, eagerly. "How 
much v.'as in it?” 

"Five thousand.” 

"Joe, give me — ” 

"I’m taking care of it. And the ring.” 
He waited a minute, his light eyes dating 
her to object. "You got any kick to make?” 
She wet her lips. "N-no. Well — no.” 

Joe smiled. "Elena’s story will get around 
today. Tonight we can leave.” 

She forced herself to slide her arms 
around his neck, and pressed closer to him. 
"Joe, let me keep the ring and money. 
You’re crazy about me, aren’t you, Joe?” 
"Sure.” 

Over his shoulder, where he couldn’t see, 
she smiled. She’d been afraid of him too 
soon. This was the way to handle Joe. 

He pushed her av/ay from him gently, but 
too quickly for her to erase the smile. 

"I’m a fool a'nout you, baby,” Joe said 
easily. "But I’m not a damn fool!” 

tie kissed lief once, hard, then he v'.is 
gone. She paced the flat from front to back. 
He couldn’t get away with this! She’d be 
damned if she’d let him! Just wait till- he 
came back! 

She stopped then in her angry, aimless 
progress. 

Maybe he wasn’t coming back! 

But he came back all right. He returned 
late that afternoon with the first wave 



THE LEGEND OF 228 



49 



of mourners. No matter how little they 
liked her, the Valley was quick with its 
sympathy, and sincere. 

Vida had been expecting them all day. 
She was prepared. 

"But why would Sam do sucli a thing?” 
she asked over and over, careful to look first 
bewildered, then appropriately stricken. 
"Why would Sam go in that dreadful 
place?” 

They didn’t know. They could only tell 
her what Elena Ostrowski had said — and 
he didn’t come out.” 

"You mean,” Vida slowly let it dawn on 
her,” "he’s — dead?” 

They turned away sadly, not answering. 
Behind their backs Joe made a long face, 
mock-tragic. Vida lifte’d her handkerchief to 
her eyes, and rocked back and forth, incon- 
solably. 

She was doing fine. She even felt like a 
sorrowing widow, she thought in pleased 
amazement. She would have convinced them 
all — if it weren’t for the Ostrowski’s. 

They were there when she looked up at 
the sudden hush — ^Big Mike Ostrowski him- 
self, flanked on one side by his wife, on the 
other by Elena. Elena’s wrist was grasped 
in her father’s big hand. She was white. It 
was that which warned Vida. In the corner 
behind them, Vida saw Joe’s face grow sud- 
denly wary. The other neighbors present 
fell silent. Big Mike was a leader, of sorts, 
in the Valley. People listened when he 
spoke. 

His eyes scanned the room. "You there, 
Joe Ross, why you give my girl five dollars 
to say she seen Sam go in 228, and not come 
out, vrhen she didn’t see no such a thing?” 

There was a gasp from the crowd. Vida 
fidgeted. From outside, on the rapidly dark- 
ening street, she could hear a buzzing as of 
angry bees. Mike had brought others with 
him! What did it all mean? 

Elena whimpered. "Fie made me tell, Joe. 
He caught me hiding the money. I — ” 

"Shut up, Elena!” her father ordered. He 
looked at Vida. "We talked it over — the 
Mrs. and me. We know there was only one 
reason why Sam would go into 228, when he 
v/as' so scared of it. You. He was crazy 
about you.” He came and stood over her 
accusingly. "You sent him a message saying 
you were a prisoner there, or something, 



didn’t you? So he’d go in. Didn’t you?” 
Even then, in all the danger and taut 
suspense that hovered over the room, Vida 
almost had to laugh. They tliought that was 
how she’d got rid of Sam! If they only 
knew! But the freight car was gone. They 
couldn’t prove anything. She looked straight 
in Mike’s eyes. 

"You’re nuts,” she said boldly. 

She got away with it. They believed her. 
The silence was broken by a pent-up sigh 
from many throats. Big Mike shifted un- 
certainly on his huge feet. 

Vida saw Joe shoot her a quick glance of 
approval for keeping her head. His face was 
rigidly calm, falsely innocent, but his fore- 
head was shiny witlr sw'eat. He put up a 
hand to wipe away that betraying evidence 
before it could be noticed. 

Mrs. Ostrowski shrilled, "Lookit! Lcokit 
on his hand! Sam’s diamond ring, what 
wouldn’t come off his finger!” 

Everytliing happened so fast then. Vida 
could hardly see. Big Mike yelled, "Grab 
him!” The crowd surged forward, mutter- 
ing. Joe caught up a carving knife and held 
it, point toward them. 

"First guy touches me gets this in the 
belly, I ain’t foolin’!” 

They stopped. He edged toward the back 
door. 

"It was her idea, anyway.” He nodded at 
Vida. 

Vida’s hand went to her mouth. "Joe! 
Joe, don’t leave me here alone!” 

"Take care of yourself,” he snarled. 
"That’s what I’m doin’.” 

But he had the money! And the ring! 
She’d be left with nothing! 

"Joe!” she wailed. 

But he was gone. 

T here is only a gaping black hole now 
where the four-story flat building once 
stood at 228 South Railroad Avenue. But 
the legend about it has never died. 

The drear}" tenement burned down that 
night. Big Mike Ostrowski himself set fire 
to it with one of the glowing torches he’d 
caught up from someone in the angry mob. 
But that was later. Much later. 

The people of the Valley have their own 
laws, and exact their own punishments. The 
City, just over the railroad embankment, is a 



5'0 



WEIRU TALES 



million light-years away. Not for the Valley, 
its imiformed police, its courts, its penal 
institutions. 

No. Vida should go the way Sam had 
gone. They sentenced her themselves, there 
in the none-too-clean kildaen of her own 
flat. 

She couldn’t believe it at first. Why, the 
poor fools! 'They were setting her free! 
These dumb slobs didn’t know it, but they 
were setting her free! Sure, she’d go in 228. 
She’d go up to the fourth floor. She’d shag 
through the fourth floor, if they lilced! And 
when she’d come out again unharmed, 
they’d let her go. They’d have to let her go. 
They couldn’t prove a thing. 

And when she caught up with Joe, as she 
would if it took her years — ! 

Her mouth straightened vindictively. 

She said not a word as the Valley-ites es- 
corted her down Railroad Avenue. 

Opposite 228, Big Mike said, "Don’t 
think you can just walk through the second 
or third flat and out the back way. There’ll 
be men watching in back. And you’re to 
carry this, so we can see you through the 
windows of the front stair-hall as you go up. 
We’ll know it if you don’t go to the top 
floor.’’ 

He held out a stinking, lighted, coal-oil 
lantern. She took it, her lips curling dis- 
dainfully. They didn’t put a hand on her, 
but the force of their hatred, their stern de- 
termination seemed to propel her across the 
street and up onto the outside stoop of the 
dark building. 

She hesitated there, but not from fear. 
Just before she entered the door, she turned 
and faced them all defiantly. 

"You dumb slobs!’’ she spat at them. 
"You dumb slobs, you!”, 

T hey only stared at her stonily, impla- 
cably. No one said a word. Their very 
silence seemed to whip her on. When she’d 
gone in they stood there in a body, watching 
the hall windows at every landing between 
floors. They saw her pass the first, the sec- 
ond. The gray oblong of the window would 
lighten as she approached it, lamp in hand. 
They could see her as she passed. Then the 
window dimmed and the one above it grew 
gradually brighter. 



She climbed mote slowly as she neared 
the top floor. Perhaps from weariness. Per- 
haps, they hoped, from fear. The last time 
they saw her was at the window on the 
landing between the third and fourth floors. 

She stopped there and held the lighted 
lantern high, so that they might see her 
clearly. With her free hand, she made an 
impudent gesture. The crowd sighed, disap- 
pointed. So she wasn’t afraid then. They 
could even see her red lips laughing scorn- 
fully as she turned away to climb the last 
flight of stairs. 

The window grew gradually dimmer as 
she mounted. Then the square of light held 
one tone of yellowish-gray for seconds, as 
if she’d reached the top floor at last, and 
stood there waiting. ’ 

It was the smell, again, that made her 
hesitate — the gradually increasing stench. 
She stood there, wavering. The lantern 
threw dim light in a golden fan on the living 
room floor before her. Fragments of decayed 
food were there, scattered about; and scraps 
of stuff — bits of clothing, she guessed, from 
their color and texture. 

She shrank from the task before her. But 
— there was no going back. 

At length she advanced, and the wedge- 
shaped segment of faint light advanced with 
her. Into the living room stealthily she 
moved; breathlessly across the floor to the 
dingy golden oak colonnade leading to the 
dining room. 

And there she stopped. Frozen. 

Her spine was whispering to her atavisti- 
cally. Bidding her turn around. Warning 
her of the thing that slithered from the 
black corner behind her — ^the hairless, fur- 
less, featherless monstrosity, its hideous 
body gleaming like slimy, wet red rubber, 
its opalescent shallow eyes, glaring, fixed 
upon her. 

She wheeled. The lantern sent crooked 
shadows dancing eerily on the walls. Just 
one vivid glimpse she caught of it — bloated, 
inhuman, grotesque. 

Even the people in the street heard the 
viscid bubbling, then, of the creature’s sa- 
liva. And abruptly, as they waited, there was 
a brittle, spilling crash of sound, and Vida’s 
light went out. . . . 

They say her screams were terrible. 




^upepAtitiond an d I 



005 



WJi 



lU OLD TIMES 
THE OWL WAS 
CONSIDERED A 
MOST CFFENStVE 
AND UHIVM BIRD t 
IT WAS BE Li EVE D 
To BE A MESSENGER 
OF DEATH and iTS 
CRT WAS THOUSHTTO 
FORETELL THE APPROACH 
OF SOME OiRE 
CALAMITY ORORPAT 



XN TmES OF 
DROUCSHT OR OTHER 
NATIONAL CRISES, the 
ANCIENT MAVAHS 
SACRIFICED BEADTiFUL 
YOUNG GIRLS TO THEIR 
GODS I They WERE 
FLUNG INTO AN EIGHTY- 
FOOr SACRED WELL 
AT OAY6REAU.AND 
SF THEI SURVIVED 
WERE HAULED OUT AT 
NOON AND QUESTIONED 
AS To THE INTENTIONS 
Of THE GODS. IF THE 
MAIDENS failed TO 
REAP PEAR, rr WAS 
CONSIDERED AH ILL OMEN 
AND THE ONLOOKERS FLED . 
WITH LOUD LAMENTATIONS Q 

© 



51 




By AUGUST DERLETH 



M r. jasper camberveigh 

was a methodical gentleman 
who tose each morning at seven 
o’clock, regardless of the weather; but that 
morning, for a reason unaccountable to him, 
he woke half an hour later. 



That was the first disturbing fact. 

The second was a curious little occur- 
rence for which, likewise, Camberveigh 
could not account. When he gazed into his 
bathroom mirror the face which looked back 
at him was briefly, not his own. What was 




Heading by A. R. TILBURNE 



52 



He had the logical 7iian’s dislike for fantasy and vague fears 




THE LOST DAY 



53 



most odd about this was the fact that fot 
a few moments he was not atvare that it was 
not his own face, despite the plainly seen 
age of that visage — almost twice his fifty 
years. Then something happened to him, 
to the mirror, to his sense of balance; he 
almost fell; the image in the mirror became 
misty and its outlines gave place to the more 
familiar lineaments of his face; and in a few 
seconds he found himself gazing into his 
own troubled blue eyes and fingering his 
own, firm jaw. 

Even this disturbing dislocation was not 
yet the last of the mysterious events of that 
morning, for, when he went to turn on the 
radio for the usual B. B. C. newscast, the 
first thing he heard was this: "Saturday, 
May seventeenth. British bombers were 
over enemy territory again- last night. ...” 

Saturday, May seventeenth! 

Camberveigh’s first thought, being a 
scholarly person and a man of fixed habits, 
was that the announcer had made a mistake, 
but as the newscaster’s voice droned on, 
speaking of the events of the preceding Fri- 
day, Camberveigh had to admit that it must 
indeed be Saturday morning. 

But Vv'hat, then, had happened to Friday.^ 

For Camberveigh had gone to bed on 
Tliursday night, and by all the laws of time 
and space, this should be Frida-y morning! 

He was gravely disturbed. If he had been 
in any -way under the weather on Thursday, 
he was prepared to admit tlie spare possi- 
bility that he might have slept through Fri- 
day. But he had been in exceptionally good 
spirits and health on Thursday; he had made 
his custoimary rounds of the second-hand 
book stores' — oh, yes, there v/as. that old 
leather-bound book he must return to Max 
Anima in Soho — a.nd he had gone to bed 
at his usual hour: eleven o’clock, a bedtime 
he had obser/ed ever since the death of his 
wife five years ago. And he felt his usual 
self this morning, save for that curious ex- 
perience in the bathroom- — and, of course, 
waking half an hour later than usual. Half 
an hour! Great heaven, a whole day and a 
whole night later! And half an hour on top 
of that! 

Camberveigh shaved and had breakfa.st, 
preoccupied. If indeed he had slept through 
Friday, he ought certainly to be hungrier 
tiian he v/as. But he w.as not huonrier 



than usual. Moreover, if he had not shaved 
on Friday, he ought to have had a greater 
growth of beard. Furthermore, there were 
curious misplacements of objects in his 
house which led him to the unavoidable 
conclusion that he had not slept through 
Friday. Obviously, then, he had been up 
and about at something. But search it as 
he might, his memory told him nothing, his 
memory presented an absolute blank. 

And yet not quite absolute: there was 
deep witliin him an urgent conviction that 
there was something strange and terrible he 
ought to know. 

Camberveigh, however, had an habitual 
dislike for fantasy, and he refused to enter- 
tain vague fears, premonitions, hunches, and 
the like. Granting the fact that somehow 
his doings on Friday the sixteenth elude I 
his memor}?, he had today to do the things 
he should have done on Friday. That book 
Anima had loaned him must be returned 
to the old book-seller. And he must have 
a visit with his physician to ascertain whether 
this sudden lack of memory about the previ- 
ous day might be a symptom of some seri- 
ous physiological disorder. A stitch in time, 
he thought. 

A ccordingly, stiii troubled about 
his flawed memory, Camberveigh sat * 
down and had a look at the book. Anima 
had pressed it upon him, saying it was full 
of antiquities, and, indeed, so it was. He 
examined the binding and had an unpleas- 
ant conviction that it was bound in human 
skin. The book itself xea.s written in Latin 
and was quite difficult to read, for the print 
had faded in many places. It was obviously, 
however, one of those curious items on de- 
monology and allied occult matters, and he 
was a little puzzled to know why Anima 
should have insisted that he take it along, 
when Anima knew very well his interests 
lay primarily in the field of entomology and 
ornithology, both of which were qaite dis- 
tinctly removed from the occult. 

He read a passage here and there, trans- 
lating as he read. "To summon from the 
Pit Him \'7!:o Will Serve you can be done 
in this wise . . . ’ here followed an elabo- 
rate formula. Ke i:;uied a few pages. "It 
is possible at the- mid fight hour to call up 
the spirits of iho dead and hold c;>ni- 



54 



WEIRD TALES 



munion with them in regard to events of 
the future. . . He turned a few more 
pages. "Thus it can be that through the 
medium of the accursed object, it is possible 
to send forth one’s spirit self, the astral 
body, and dispossess another for a brief 
time, but only for so long as the object re- 
main in his possession.” He dipped into the 
book farther along. "Quentus had with him 
continually a large black dog, commonly 
held to be his familiar, a certain evil demon 
summoned from the Pitt and put into his 
service. ...” 

Certainly it w'as interesting, Camber\'eigh 
thought, in a detached way; but it was not 
in his field, and he must regretfully return 
it and spend no further time on it. He had 
little enough time to devote to his studies 
as it was. He wrapped the book carefully, 
got dressed, took his umbrella — though it 
was an exceedingly mild day outside — and 
set out for his doctor’s office, which was 
within walking distance of his home. 

There was nothing whatever wrong with 
him, 

"Perfectly fit,” said his physician. "Your 
experience is certainly odd — hut not at all 
unique. Such things have happened before 
and will happen again. Forget about it.” 

"But I have the feeling that there is some- 
thing about yesterday I ought to know.” 

"So would I, in the circumstances.” 

Somewhat reassured, Camberveigh went 
on his way. He descended to the Under- 
ground, and, while waiting for his train, 
bought a copy of the News of the World. 
British bombings, threats of German repris- 
als, Spanish toadying to the Axis, American 
toadying to Spain — disgusting! He turned 
to an inner page and saw that one of his ac- 
quaintances had come to his end in a violent 
manner. "Murder of Rochard Craig!” read 
the headline. "No further clue has thus far 
been discovered in the search for the mur- 
derer who entered Rochard Craig’s home 
sometime yesterday and killed Craig when 
discovered in the act of rifling Craig’s 
bookshelves of rare old volumes which con- 
stituted the heart of the Craig collection. 
Craig was stabbed to death. Search is be- 
ing made for the missing volumes but there 
is little hope. . . Horrible! thought Cam- 
berveigh perfunctorily, and went on to read 
the usual column on birds in the country 



written by a retired beekeeper in Sussex. 

His train came and he took it to Soho, 
taking pleasure in the accounting of what 
the linnets and the cuckoos and a rare pere- 
grine had been up to during the past week 
in Sussex. He caught the correspondent in 
what he was convinced was a minor error, 
and made a mental reservation to write and 
challenge him on the point, however trivial 
it was. The scientific amenities must be 
observed, fancy must not be confused with 
fact, the truth must be adhered to with ex- 
actitude. 'Tliat alone was the proper atti- 
tude. 

H e arrived at Anima’s hole-in-a-cor- 
ner book shop some time after the 
lunch hour, but, since he was habitually a 
lackadaisical luncher, he did not mind, "rhe 
shop was, as usual, quite dark; it was set 
into a little alley, and even with the bright- 
est sunlight, not too much light ever reached 
inside. So much Camberveigh had observed 
on his first visit to Anima’s shop, which 
had been made only a little over a fortnight 
ago, and had been brought about by a 
chance meeting with the bookseller himself 
in an air-raid shelter. Anima seemed to 
prefer it that way. 

He stood for some time waiting; perhaps 
the bookseller was at his luncheon, perhaps 
he had not heard the little bell tinkle. After 
waiting a few moments in vain, Camber- 
veigh walked back among stacks of books 
and touched the bell with his umbrella. 'This 
time it brought Anima out of the back 
room. 

A small, wizened man, not very strong, 
who came obsequiously and with narrowed 
eyes. "Ah, it is you,” he said with an al- 
most offensive familiarity. "You have 
brought my book back, eh.?” His eyes fell 
upon the package Camberveigh carried, and 
—could it be? — lit up with a strange, eager 
sense of possession. 

Abruptly Camberveigh heard himself say- 
ing, "■'jjTay, no. I’m sorry, Mr. Anima. I 
found it so interesting to read that I wanted 
to look it over a little longer. I thought 
you would not care if I kept it at least over 
Sunday.” 

Anima was disappointed. He shot a 
sharp, inquisitive look at Camberveigh, but 
was apparently satisfied by what he saw in 



THE LOST DAY 



55 



Camberveigh’s face. He nodded curtly, 
and said very well, Camberveigh might read 
it if he liked. "But not over Monday, 
mind! I must have the book back Monday. 
I need it. I am — studying in it.” 

Camberveigh left the shop in perplexity. 
What inexplicable motive had hripelled him 
to keep the book? Why had he suddenly 
thought there was something shudderingly 
familiar about the old man whom he had 
viewed witli the most aloof unconcern at 
every previous meeting? It was extraordi- 
nary — and yet, was it, indeed? 

It came to him with a feeling of chilling 
shock that he had seen Anima’s face since 
bis last visit to the shop. The feeling be- 
came conviction, free of all doubt. 

Fleeting as it had been, it was Anima’s 
face which had looked at him out of his own 
mirror that morning! 

On his way back to his rooms, he tried to 
rationalize his actions. But they were in- 
capable of rationalization. Of a sudden 
there in that dark shop, when confronted 
by Anima’s eagerness to repossess his curi- 
ous book, Camberveigh had been assaulted 
by an eerie determination to retain posses- 
sion of it. 

He had acted on impulse, something he 
had never done before. But now, as he sat 
there in the underground train, he was con- 
scious of a great turmoil inside him, of a 
conflict of emotions rooted in some facet 
through to which he could not reach; once 
again it was wound up with what he ought 
to know about the previous day, but there 
was the conviction that he was close to 
knowing, that indeed he knew, if only he 
could understand. It w'as extraordinary, and 
it was extremely upsetting to a man as me- 
thodical as Camberveigh. 

Really, he did not want to see any more 
of Anima’s book. What imp of perversity 
was responsible for his action? He had 
had ample time to examine the volume, for 
which he began now to feel a faint distaste, 
an aversion which, like his sudden impulse 
of but a short while ago, he could not ex- 
plain. He took the book home with him and 
unwrapped it again. 

T he binding was certainly of human skin. 

There was no telling how old it was, but 
it was not so mucli a genuine book as a 



compilation of various printed things gath- 
ered up by some long-dead collector, and 
bound in this hideous fashion. Camberveigh 
thought it might conceivably date back to 
the time wdien Black Masses and devil wor- 
ship were flagrant in London, but he was 
a little haz}' on his dates. 

He turned from the book and set about 
answering the morning’s post. But he could 
not keep his attention to the mail; he kept 
thinking about the book, about Anima and 
his strange eagerness — first, to press it upon 
him; then to take it back. He thought about 
the incredible fascination that the volume 
seemed to have for him at the same time 
that he was conscious of its repellence. 

Finally, he got up, because he could no 
longer continue to struggle v/ithin himself, 
and went over to the book and opened it, 
determined that he might as well be me- 
thodical about it and read in it until he was 
thoroughly tired of it. This he did. He 
read all about demons, witches, warlocks, 
cabalistic rites, certain strange practices of 
Druids, ancient religions, spectres, astrals, 
hauntings; he read until nightfall, and then 
put the book aside. 

At that hour, it w^as his custom, being a 
neat man, to clean his apartment. He set 
about doing this, and so came upon his gray 
suit dropped behind an overstaffed chair. 
One of his best suits, too! How had that 
come to be there? He picked it up, indig- 
nant. Surely he could not have done that 
even in a state of trance, if he had been in 
one on Friday! To add to his indignation, 
he saw when he had rescued it, that not 
only was the suit badly wrinkled, but it was 
very dirty and dusty, as if he had carried 
something heavy against it; and finally, he 
saw that it v/as stained rather messily wdth 
something that had dried brown into the 
fabric and looked rusty. 

He brushed his coat, and finally carried 
it tentatively to the wash-bowd in the bath- 
room, where he wet one of the stains gin- 
gerly and scrubbed at it. The water came 
away a kind of odd brown-red — ^the w'ater 
in the bowl began to look the way it did 
when he had washed out a blood-stained 
handkerchief after a bad cut a month ago. 
Camberveigh stood and looked down into 
the water. What was it he saw there? What 
depths of darkness and horror looked up 



56 



WEIRD TALES 



at him from this curiously colored water. 
He looked at his suit and abruptly thrust it 
from him. Then he took it up again and 
gazed at it more intently. If the stains were 
blood-stains • — what made those serried 
marks of dust and dirt? ' As if books had 
been carried there, pressed close to his body! 

His mouth and tiiroat v/ent dry, and he 
began to tremble a little. 

W hat went through his mind was surely 
impossible! But now, inexorably, his very 
method began to make itself felt. He went 
back in memory to the visit he had paid 
Anima on Thursday; he reconstructed, word 
for word, their conversation. 

"Do you know Rochard Craig?” Anima 
had asked. 

"Yes.” 

"Ever been in his house?” 

"Oh, yes.” 

"Know your way around then, eh? Seen 
his collection?” 

"Yes, though I don’t go in much for 
books.” 

"No, you bugs and bird people don’t ap- 
preciate inanimate things.” 

So much of it came back with striking 
clarity.' Anima had mentioned Rochard 
Craig; Anima’s envy at mention of certain 
of Craig’s books was umnistakable. What 
were they? His methodical mind presently 
gave him a title or two, whereupon he went 
at once to the papers and looked up those 
titles among the books listed as missing 
from Craig’s collection. They were there, 
duly listed. 

Camberveigh mixed himself a Scotch and 
soda and dranlc it fast. 

Then he went back to that horror of a 
book still lying on the table where he had 
left it. 

After some while of searching, he found 
the passage that had recurred to memory. 
Thus it can be that through the medium of 
the accursed object, it is possible to send 
forth one’s spirit self, the astral body, and 
dispossess another for a brief time, but only 
for so long as the object remains in his pos- 
session. I-Ie read on in growing amazement. 
What was set down there was inconceivable, 
incredible, and yet . . . 

Yet there were those blood-stains on his 
suit; there were marks as if he had carried 
away books; there were so many curious 



facts that they went beyond mere 0)ind- 
dence. 

And the accursed object— surely the 
book! 

Given him by Anima, who had somehow 
then taken possession of him. That was 
where his lost day had gone. , UnbelievjJble 
as it might be, against all reason — 
offered the only comprehensive explanation 
of what had happened to his Friday. 

He read on, struggling to keep his natural 
scientific prejudice from getting in the way. 
Apparently there was but one risk run by 
the projector; mitil his "abject” was re- 
turned to him, there existed by its very pos- 
session in the hands of another a bond be- 
tween them; that would surely account for 
Anima’s eagerness to regain his book. Yes, 
it was undeniable, it made a precise pattern, 
with every facet fitting neatly into place. 

Camberveigh sat back, little beads of cold 
perspiration on his forehead. He lit a ciga- 
rette. He must think. 

He knew enough about the laws of evi- 
dence to know that if the investigation of 
Rochard Craig’s death — ^ho, how foul! He 
revolted against himself at the thought that 
his hand might have brought it about — ever 
got to him, he would not have a China- 
man’s chance. There was the condition of 
his suit, the blood could be analyzed easily; 
there were the books — no doubt whatever 
that Anima had them; he would certainly 
testify that Camberveigh had brought them 
in Friday, on that infamous lost day. And 
perhaps even the weapon — ! He got up on 
the instant and began an intensive search. 

In less than half an hour he discovered 
it; a little stiletto he had picked up long 
ago at a sale at Petrie’s. It was awkwardly 
hidden behind a shelf of books. What evi- 
dence! 

Fie took it out and washed it thoroughly. 

The hour was now quite late; darkness 
had fallen. He paced his rooms for a while 
in deep thought, but eventually he returned 
to the book. 

What v/as it he must do as Anima had 
done? 

Still incredible, he took the book, 
stretched out on his bed and began to fol- 
low the instructions put down in that la- 
bored Latin. 

It seemed to him after a while that he 



THE LOST DAY 



57 



slept . . . and that he dreamed. Of foggy 
streets, and the voice of London muted in 
the night, a London where nothing was ma- 
terial; and he passed through walls as if 
they were air, swiftly, swiftly, recognizing 
streets, lanes, buildings; and he was in Soho, 
going down that little alley, passing into 
that hole-in-a-corner shop with its musty 
books. And it seemed to him that he en- 
tered into die wizened, crabbed figure lying 
asleep there and took his body and destroyed 
it. And then again the fog and the night 
and London asleep, save for those dark- 
eyed, sleepless creatures who walked its 
streets by night, pitied by darkness, the for- 
gotten and homeless. . . . After a long while 
he struggled awake, tired as if he had not 
slept at all. But he had. He had awakened at 
promptly seven o’clock on Sunday morning. 

Ah, what a dream he had had! But — 
was it a dream? He was still fully clothed. 
He leaped from his bed and knocked down 
that book of Max Anima’s. With a shud- 
der of revulsion, he picked it up and car- 
ried it back out to the table. 

I T WAS not a dream. There was his suit, 
still, with those ghastly, incriminating 
stains. There was the stiletto, too. Worst 
of all, there was the book bound in human 
skin. Who could doubt that it was ac- 
cursed? 

Anger and frustrated rage and bitterness 
rose in him. It took him some time to 
quell these emotions, to bring to bear upon 
his problem the fundamental meticulousness 
of habitual method. He reviewed his situa- 
tion; it was not good. Surely it was beyond 
the bounds of possibility that no one had 
seen him in the vicinity of Craig’s house; 
Anima in his physical self need not have 
feared being seen. Even if he, Camber- 
veigh, had guessed, could he tell the police? 
He could picture the reception such a fan- 
tastic rigmarole would receive! 



He snatched up the book again, took his 
suit, and descended to the basement, where 
he lit a fire in the furnace and carefully de- 
stroyed both objects. After he had com- 
pleted this task, he removed the ashes, 
cooled the furnace, and ran the ashes down 
the drain. 'Then he took the stiletto, 
walked out, and dropped it into the Thames, 
which flowed past not far away. 

After this he returned home, shaved 
methodically, and got himself some break- 
fast, thinking. 

If anyone had seen him on that lost Fri- 
day, by all the laws of average, the police 
would soon be at his door. At least, the 
evidence was gone now. He had more than 
a fighting chance. He began instinctively 
to gird himself for battle. Actually, he 
was not guilty, but there was no way in 
which he could involve Anima, none what- 
ever. 

In any case, he was beginning to have 
grave doubts about the whole matter. That 
damnable book had actually suggested that 
no psychic force could compel anyone to 
do something- against his own nature, and 
the implications of that were monstrous! 

He turned on the radio and dialed for the 
news. He was a little late. He missed the 
war bulletins and got the late London news. 
"Max Anima, eccentric bookseller famed 
for his skill in obtaining rare and unique 
out-of-print books, was found dead this 
morning in the rooms behind his bookshop. 
He had apparently committed suicide. The 
door of his rooms was locked on the in- 
side ...” 

So that, he thought, was that! 

At that moment there was a ponderous 
and authoritative knock on his door. 

Now then, he thought, and went confi- 
dently forward to open the door. 

An Inspector from Scotland Yard stood 
on the stoop. With a polite "Good morn- 
ing,” he walked in, quite sure of himself. 




^ ^^/itimate Paradox 



By THORP McCLUSKY 



Thirty years in the employ of the scientist 
and he’d seen a lot of strange sights . . . . 
hut this .... 



W HEN Beecham, gardener, chauf- 
feur, and man of all work to Dr. 
Severance, the retired physicist, 
f.rst saw the crochety old man standing on 
the lawn bej'ond the rose arbor, adjusting 
a strangely complex machine about his body, 
he thought nothing of it, but went on with 
his pruning. In the tliirtj^-odd years he 
had spent in Dr. Severance’s employ he had 
seen too many strange sights to become im- 
mediately interested in every new gadget 
with which' the old man toyed. Cursorily, 
he noticed that the thing was cumbersome, 
and that there .were many tiny wires and 
belts connected about it which bothered the 
master somewhat in the fastening; he no- 
ticed a fiat, mc'callic cabinet suspended down 
Dr. Severance’s back, and a composition 
panel set with a chaos of small dials and 
switches hung across the aged man’s chest. 
But these details interested Beecham only 
momentarily, and, after a brief stand-up- 
a.nd-stretch, during which he wiped a spray 
of July sw'eat from his forehead, he bent 
down again to his work. 

Nor did he look up w'hen, live or six 
minutes later, the shadow first fell across 
him. The day had been, up to that mo- 
ment, broilingly cloudless, and his first im- 
pression was that the sky was becoming 
overcast. Thinking that the shadow might 
be that of his employer, and without look- 
ing up, he said, jovially, "I take it the day 
is fair enough for you, Dr. Severance, sir?” 
Silence, intense and unexpected, an- 
sw’ered. Beecham, believing that, after all, 
it had been a cloud, and anxious for rain 
to freshen his parched gardens, looked up 
toward the sky, and screamed, stranglingly, 
in mortal terror! 

Before him, in the acre or so of lawn 



Heading by BORIS DOLGOV 



58 



THE ULTIMATE PARADOX 



59 



that stretched up to the rear of the house, 
stood the embodiment of an insane dream: 
the figure of a man, a thousand feet tall! A 
mighty metal fabric the size of a battleship 
was on its back, and its chest was covered 
with monstrous mechanisms. The nap of 
its garments was lilce thickly woven haw- 
sers. The thing’s tremendous feet almost 
covered the lawn, and as Beecham watched 
he saw the soles of the shoes spreading out 
in every direction, as fast as a man might 
walk. Beecham screamed again, and the 
sound was like the voice of nothing human. 
And while he watched, paralyzed with fear, 
the thing grew skyward. 

Suddenly the nightmarish petrification 
left Beecham’s legs, and, howling and froth- 
ing, he ran across the gardens toward the 
road. Other people were running from 
neighboring houses; Beecham saw them ges- 
ticulating and shouting. Some covered their 
faces with their hands, ostrich-like, cower- 
ing where they stood. Others ran, aimlessly, 
stumbling and falling, getting up to run and 
stumble and fall again. 

The shadow was no longer falling on 
him. The sim shone again, glaringly hot. 
Beecham looked back. The figure, grown 
immeasurably more huge, had stepped from 
the lawn across a v/ide expanse of pasture 
land, and was standing at the edge of a 
wood. 

From far down the road Beecham heard 
the wail of a siren. A long black touring 
car raced down the boulevard and with 
brakes screaming, stopped abruptly beside 
the hedge a few feet from Beecham. It dis- 
gorged a number of policemen. 

Police Captain Riley looked across the 
pasture-land toward the wood. 

"My God, what can we do against a thing 
like that!” He was not afraid, but his voice 
shook. He carried a submachine gun in 
the crook of his right arm, but, after a mo- 
ment’s hesitation, he shrugged, turned and 
put it down on the front seat of the auto- 
mobile. 

Siren after siren wailed as the police came 
in patrol and radio cars, on motorcycles, in 
commandeered automobiles. The roadway 
was jammed. Beecham, feeling less afraid, 
wornieJ his way toward Captain Riley, 

"My God, are we goin’ nuts entirely?” 
Riley was saying. 



"Please, officer,” Beecham pleaded, pluck- 
ing at Riley’s sleeve, "I know him.” He 
gestured toward the figure. "It’s Dr. Sev- 
erance. I’m his man Beecham, and I’d 
recognize him anywhere.” 

"Holy Mother of Mercy!” Riley cried, 
looking first at Beecham, and then at the 
silent colossus standing in the wood. He 
said no more, only stared at the thing that 
grew there, stared with his mouth hanging 
slackly open, and a greenish sickliness on 
his face. 

B y that time there must have been 
half a thousand people lined along 
that road, watching the wood a mile away, 
and the being that rose, second by second, 
into the sky. For the most part there was 
silence. 'There was an occasional scream, 
and there were curses that were really pray- 
ers, but there was no coherent word spoken 
in all that first ghastly half-hour. For it 
occupied no more than a half-hoiu alto- 
gether, that first stage. Watches cannot lie, 
and cannot be frightened. 

A horrible sound of crashing trees and 
crunching shrubbery came from the wood. 
'The figure did not move; it only grew. And 
the forest crashed as it grew. 

Perhaps twenty minutes had passed since 
Beecham first noticed the shadow. The- 
figure at the end of that time was probably 
five miles tall! This estimate cannot be con- 
sidered accurate, as it is partly based on the 
testimony of witnesses who were, at the 
time, half mad with fear. Afterward, how- 
ever, measurements were made by municipal 
surveyors which showed fairly definitely the 
extent of damage to the timber, and from 
these measurements it would appear that the 
impressions left in the wood by the feet of 
the figure were upwards of three thousand 
feet in length. 

From the time it had stepped from the 
garden to the center of the wood the fig- 
ure had not moved. It stood as if anxious 
not to cause any more panic than would be 
unavoidable by reason of the fear occasioned 
by its Gargantuan size. In fact. Captain 
Riley remembered later having remarked 
that, "It doesn’t seem to want to squash any- 
body, does it?” 

All at once, people noticed that the 
sounds from the forest had ceased. No one 



60 



WEIRD TALES 



was able to recall exactly when they ceased 
— rather most people remembered that their 
attention was drawn from the rending of 
live wood to the more homely sounds about 
them: the chattering of nerve-wracked 
voices, the clatter of rifle-butts, and the sick- 
ish sucking of tires on sticky macadam. But 
the forest was silent. No more trees fell. 

The figure still grew. 

The first fright began to leave the ma- 
jority of those who watched. They spread 
out along the hedge beside the road, and 
waited, looking toward the wood. They 
moved and talked as though they dreamed, 
as though their dreams were nightmares 
which had failed to develop the maximum 
of horror. This curious mass reaction was 
no doubt due to a subconscious lessening of 
fear of the figure, which had not threatened 
them in any way. 

The figure rapidly reached such propor- 
' tions that any attempt to estimate its actual 
siae by comparing the statements of eye- 
witnesses becomes absurd. The feet and 
legs tow'ered out of the wood, which they 
had almost completely hidden, and the rest 
of the figure v/as so foreshortened by the 
nearness of the people huddling beneath it 
that the upper part of the body was beyond 
view. 

It%vas possible to watch, almost foot by 
foot, the steady growth of the colossus. Rank 
after rank of treetops disappeared, sound- 
lessly, apparently vanishing within the solid 
leather of the bootsoles. It was not until 
the feet, after swelling entirely out of the 
wood, had begun to advance across the pas- 
ture that those watching observed an in- 
credibility. 

It luas as ij the -wood and pasture-land 
became a part' of the figure, or, conversely, 
the figure became a part of the landscape, 
without harm to either! Amazed, the peo- 
ple watched, and saw that a tree, merging 
into the colossus, v/ou!d not tremble even in 
its tiniest leaf, but, on the contrary, would 
stand erect as if the monster engulfing it 
were no more than impalpable fog. 

Then a man, more sharp-eyed than most, 
shouted, '"The damned thing’s transparent!” 

Presently all of those who watched sav/ 
that this was so. As t!)e great bootsoles, 
like monstrous ramparts of leather, advanced 
over tile meadnv.--;: 'hey saw that they cccld 



discern the outlines of trees and rocks 
ivithin their surface, as though encased in 
brown ice. 

The boot-soles, a thousand feet high, had 
advanced halfway across the meadows. The 
police began to clear the road. Captain 
Riley and his men, spread a mile or so up 
and dov/n the road, continued to watch the 
sheer brown mountain that, grown out of all 
semblance to anything describable, towered 
into infinit}' a scant hundred yards away. 
Their automobiles, drawn up alongside the 
road, stood with motors idling, ready to 
speed them to safety. 

Two state policemen, as though gripped 
abruptly by a common impulse, vaulted the 
hedge and cautiously advanced across the 
meadow. Tliey approached within a hun- 
dred feet of the billovdng brown wall. Then 
one drew his automatic, dubiously emptied 
its magazine into the advancing mass. Turn- 
ing, he looked at the policemen scattered 
along the road, and grinned. Then, wav- 
ing his hand, he walked directly into the 
tawny transparent immensity. 

For possibly twenty or thirty feet he con- 
tinued. Once or twice he put his hand be- 
fore his eyes, as a man, walking in a thick 
smudge, might do. Then he came out, and 
held his h.inds high over his head to show 
that he was unhurt. 

He talked to his companion. They stood 
close together. The city police clambered 
os'er the hedge and came toward them. The 
brownish wall continued to advance. It 
filled half the sky, like a great cloud. 

The thing was becoming colorless, and 
more and more transparent. It reached the 
policemen, and crossed the road. There was 
nothing solid about it. The men walked 
in it as they zmight walk in a dirt;', fine rain. 
It had become a faint brownishness that 
tinted faces, houses, trees, the sky and the 
earth alike, but that had no realit}^ to it. 

W ITHIN the hour the vanguard of a 
swarm of reporters and sensation hunt- 
ers began to arrive. They vecre disap- 
pointed, for there was nothing to see. Ex- 
cept for an unusual brownish tint which 
hung in the sky, and which made the late 
afternoon heavens strikingly beautiful, there 
was nothing, nothing at all, 

"What vaas it.^” the papers asked, later. 



THE ULTIMATE PARADOX 



,61 



hoax? Mass hypnotism? What caused 
the destruction in the forest? Why the 
great footprints, etched in splintered trees?” 

Captain Riley, seeing that the danger, if 
any had ever existed, was over, sent his men 
back to the city. He was about to clamber 
into his car himself when he saw Beecham. 
He remembered that Beecham had told him 
something crazy. 

"Hey, you! What’s this you said to me 
about Imowing that?” He waved an in- 
effectual arm in a half -circle that took in 
half the world. 

Beecham licked his lips. 

"I said it looked like Dr. Severance,” he 
mumbled. 

Riley considered. He felt empty, like a 
child who has seen a bubble blow up and 
burst. "Get in,” he growled. "We’re go- 
ing over and have a talk with your Dr. 
Severance.” 

The car, Riley driving, with Beecham 
huddled beside him, hurtled savagely down 
the road and pulled up with a jerk before 
the Severance estate. Riley, mumbling 
angrily, gestured to Beecham to precede him 
up the walk. The screen door was un- 
latched. 

Beecham entered, Riley close behind him. 
They walked through the library. There 
was no one in the room. At the far end of 
the library was a heavy, golden-oak door. 

"Where’s that go?” 

Beecham hesitated. "That’s Dr. Sever- 
ance’s study. He never lets me inside.” 

"You go ahead,” Riley snarled. “By 
God, you open that door.” 

Beecham’s trembling hands pushed open 
the door . . . 

W HEN old Charles Severance, standing 
on the lawn beside his house, adjusted 
the straps about his body and threw certain 
small switches in the panel on his coat, he 
knew with a fair degree of certainty just 
what would happen. He knew that the 
mechanism, or rather the complexity of 
mechanisms, which he had devised was 
capable of doing two things. It built up a 
field, electrical in nature, yet which tapped 
sources of pure energy which were even 
more fundamental than electricity, which 
exerted an explosive force upon every pro- 
ton and electron, on every fleck of energy. 



within a certain radius. In non-technical 
language, it was a repulsive force, universal 
yet limited to its own boundaries, which 
caused every electon within those boundaries 
to recede from its proton, and every proton 
in turn to repulse every other proton. Thus 
any matter placed within its field, and acted 
upon, grew, retaining its original mass, di- 
minishing in density; the apparatus itself, 
being within the field, also grew, and even 
the field itself, because its action was cumu- 
lative, grew. This entire process was pro- 
gressive and proportionate. 

Many scientists have long known that 
there is a universal yardstick of energy. Call 
it by any name — call it electricity, although 
we know that electricity is only a manifes- 
tation of it, as is gravitation — call it pure 
forces — call it God; whatever it is, it is the 
building material of all the universes. Doc- 
tor Severance had discovered a way to pour 
this energy into his field. He had also ob- 
served that this pure force ob^ed certain 
simple laws. It spread uniformly through- 
out a given space, like water, which seeks a 
common level, and maintains, within nar- 
row limits, a certain density. Released with- 
in the confines of Doctor Severance’ field, 
this force would immediately commence 
adding energy, or mass, to every proton and 
electron within the field until, should the - 
process not be halted, the field itself, and 
everything it contained, would become a 
ball of pure force. The fundamental en- 
ergy was apparently available, in limitless 
quantities, throughout all space. 

Doctor Severance was well aware that he 
could never reverse the action of his appa- 
ratus. Energy once poured into its field 
could never be withdrawn. Once he sub- 
jected his body to its influence there was 
no going back. . . . 

Standing on the lawn and growing, grow- 
ing — Doctor Severance, with the thorough- 
ness which was second nature with him, 
mentally recorded his sensations. He had 
synchronized his apparatus so that his dens- 
ity would increase in correct proportion to 
his mass. 

He felt no bodily sensations whatever, no 
nausea, no dizziness, nothing. Yet the 
ground sank away from him on all sides, 
the houses shrank to doll-like proportions, 
and the road before his house became a 



62 



WEIRD TALES 



tiny black ribbon. He looked down. Tire 
traffic had stopped for a mile or more up 
and down the road, and one stumbling fig- 
ure, seemingly an inch tall, in the greenish 
patch that was his garden, he knew to be 
Beecham. He smiled, but then, noticing 
that the lawn on which he stood was grow- 
ing too small, he stepped into the wood. 

Growing, growing, growing — ^he watdied 
the landscape fall away from all about him 
and the hills became little ridges across the 
earth. All at once he noticed that the trees 
were crumbling beneath his feet, and, afraid 
that he might unwittingly destroy property 
and human life, he hurriedly switched off 
the tremendous surge of pure force which 
had, until that moment, kept his density 
constant. He did not know exactly what 
would happen; he might conceivably die, 
but it was better that he die than that the 
world be destroyed. 

He looked about. The horizon was 
sweeping away from him, and hills and 
mountains climbed into viev/. Beneath him 
clouds billowed, and fragments of the earth 
v.-ere obscured. 

As the ocean of air above him grew 
thinner the vault of heaven darkened and 
became purplish; the clouds beneath him 
were like the surface of a tumultuous sea, 
splashed Avith gold by the sunset. 

He noticed that he was becoming dizzy. 
The sky above him was almost black. He 
fumbled beneath his shoulder for the noz- 
zle of the oxygen tube, and fastened the 
mouthpiece across his face. The dizziness 
left him. 

He looked at the sun, a blinding, bluish- 
white ball, with great vari-colored streamers 
writhing and tossing on its surface and far 
out in space. The sky had become com- 
pletely black, and v/as spattered with mil- 
lions of hard, unblinking stars of every 
color, each piercingly bright, each incon- 
ceivably remote. 

Tire earth beneath his feet had become a 
great ball. Along, its eastern edge there lay 
a belt of purplish darkness. He noticed 
that he could no longer feel it, as something 
solid, beneath him. He looked down once 
more, and saw that, like a great ball a hun- 
dred feet in diameter, it was moving slowly 
away from him. Half of it was bright and 
shining, like aluminum, Avhile the other half 



was a blackness against the stars. Across 
the edge of the earth the moon appeared. 
He could see it move. Apparently his time- 
mode was becoming slower. Watching the 
moon, it seemed for only a few minutes, 
he saw it come entirely within viev/. The 
earth had diminished to a ball the size of a 
house. The moon moved faster. 

Both the earth arid the m.oon were mov- 
ing away. They became a pretty little mech- 
anism the size of a dinner plate, the moon, 
like a white cherry, encircling the earth in 
the time it takes to draw a breath. 

Presently they were lost in the glare of 
the sun. 

He experienced no sensation of either 
cold or warmth. 

Apparently a non-lum.inous body in free 
space could not radiate heat. He touched 
his hands together, and felt the pulse beat- 
ing in his wrists. Looking downward at 
his body, he saw half of it bathed in bright 
sunlight, the other half outlined as a black- 
ness across the stars. 

Almost within arm’s reach he noticed a 
ball the size of a small shot. It was vaguely 
reddish in color, and spinning so rapidly 
that the surface markings upon it were 
blurred. It rushed toward him. He knew’ 
that it was the planet Mars, and, full of a 
vast curiosity, he watched it bury itself in 
his side. He turned his head, and in a sec- 
ond saAv it emerge from the small of his 
back. He chuckled. 

W ITHIN minutes the solar system swept 
by. Jupiter passed almost as dose as 
did Mars, but seemed the size of a chern’- 
stone surrounded by whirling motes of light. 
Saturn, with her rings and galaxy of moons, 
he picked out against the blinding blanket 
of stars by her rapid progression across 
their motionless field. Uranus, Neptune, 
and Pluto he did not observe. The sun be- 
came only another star amid the multihide. 
For a moment, before he lost sight of it in 
the swarm, he believed that he saw it sur- 
rounded by rushing circles of light, which 
could only be the planets whirling about it, 
hundreds of times in each second. 

Presently the very stars themselves were 
moving, at first slowly, and then with the 
speed of meteors. Tlie little duster in which 
he found himself became disk-shaped, and 



THE ULTIMATE PARADOX 



then it was spinning, faster and faster. The 
individual stars had become indistinguish- 
able, and he only saw them as clusters that, 
apparently, stretched on without end. A 
universe lay across his thumbnail; a multi- 
tude of universes spangled his body. And 
still there was no end to them; they merged 
into each other until even they were merely 
flecks of light surrounding him and extend- 
ing onward into infinity. 

Then a strange thing happened. He no- 
ticed that the universes were no longer giv- 
ing out light. Perhaps they had been slowly 
dimming for several moments; he was not 
sure. But, nevertheless, they had become 
lightless while, paradoxically, it was becom- 
ing lighter all about! A faint, almost in- 
tangible glow was growing steadily, all 
about him. The individual universes, even 
as lightless motes, impalpable as dust, were 
no longer distinguishable. But in their place 
he saw vague clusters that seemed to be in- 
animate matter! 

They were gigantic, and they filled his 
vision like gargantuan mountains. But, like 
the universes, they became swiftly smaller, 
and, as their size diminished, their outlines 
became more plain. At last, and beyond 
the possibility of doubt, he saw that he 
stood amid a cluster of huge rocks, appar- 
ently of pure quartz, that towered over his 
head. 

He felt no surprise, but only a tremen- 
dous exaltation. He knew in that moment 
that he had successfully stepped upward a 
plane in the gigantic cosmic stairway, and 
that he was on another world! Those quartz- 
like rocks all about were, he knew, micro- 
scopic specks of sand. He stood in their 
midst and watched them diminish and 
others like them come marching into his 
horizon. 

Gingerly he turned on his universal force 
mechanism. He needed mass, the mass of 
a billion universes! 

And still he grew, until he approximated 
what he believed to be the height of a man. 
Then he turned off his mechanism. 

All about him stretched a wilderness of 
sand, a desert of limitless expanse, rolling 
away, lifeless, flat, and heat-tortured, to the 
horizon. The sky overhead was a deep 
blackish blue, and no cloud broke the mo- 
notony of its vaulted arching. Halfway 



&3 

down the sky hung a dwarfish, blue sun, 
crackling out the heyday of its youth like 
an electric flame. 

The sun was not old, but the planet was 
already old and dead, burned to death, most 
likely, he thought. Without doubt there 
was no place for him on this sunbaked 
world. He was already becoming faint from 
the heat. He glanced at the dial on his 
oxygen tank, which registered three-fourths 
capacity, and, with a regretful glance about 
him, turned on his mechanism. 

He had learned so pitifully little about 
this new universe into which he had cast 
himself! Able to step upward from universe 
to universe at will, able to encircle within 
the confines of his field an entire cosmos, 
yet, his apparatus at rest, he became, on 
the surface of any world to which chance 
brought him, merely a halting, stumbling, 
defenseless old man. 

The sum total of the knowledge he had 
gathered about this world, this universe, he 
was leaving, was negligible. He could not 
know if the desert in which he had stood 
covered the entire surface of the planet, 
or was limited in extent. He could not tell 
if the blue sun blazed fifty million or a 
billion miles away. 

He watched the planet dwindle and van- 
ish, the sun merge amid others that blan- - 
keted the black sky with unfamiliar con- 
stellations; he watched those constellations 
themselves fall together into puffs of light 
that merged into other puffs of light. And 
presently he felt himself developing into 
another space. 

A ll about him billowed a sea of in- 
tensely crimson light. He could not 
feel it, because he was impalpable, and it 
flowed through him without harming him 
as molten iron flows in a vacuum. He did 
not dare admit pure force within the atoms 
of his body until he definitely knew the na- 
ture of the substance surrounding him, and 
that it could not harm him, so, after a brief 
pause he continued on, growing, growing, 
growing, while the crimson flow swirled 
about him and through him. 

Presently he felt the red fire washing 
through and about his eyeballs, thinning 
above him, giving him the sensation a swim- 
mer might experience while emerging, witih 



64 



WEIRD TALES 



opeaed eyes, from beneath the surface of 
water. He looked out upon a sea of leap- 
ing fire, extending in every direction as 
had the sandy desert a few moments be- 
fore. Above his head was a lake of black- 
ness, strewn with stars. 

He knew then that he had been within 
a sun. And so he went on, and that sun 
shrank within him until it became like a red 
orange lying within his chest, and the stars 
and universes moved toward him once more, 
and became little clouds of energy that 
passed within his body, and a new space 
opened about him once again. 

He saw that he was enveloped in a gray- 
ish fog, lying thick and dark about his feet 
and legs and up to his waist, but thinning 
to a dirty darkness about his head and 
shoulders. He could see no more than a 
few feet in any direction, and the sliminess 
in 'which he stood was agitated, now and 
- again, as if by the passage of some form of 
life through it. Shuddering, he continued 
his growth until he stood in the grayness 
like a man in a limitless puddle. Mist 
swirled about his face, and he could barely 
see his shoetops. 

He allowed energy greater than that of 
the universe he had encompassed to flow 
into him, and watched the dirty slime stir 
momentarily beneath his feet as the atoms 
of his body pushed it aside. Then he stepped 
out briskly and aimlessly, eager to explore 
this strange \vorld. 

He realized that he was in some form of 
bog which, because of its shallowness, could 
not be very extensive. He was right, for 
he had scarcely walked fifty paces when the 
ground beneath him shelved upward very 
slightly, and he found himself waist deep in 
a forest of lush, whitish, fern-like vegeta- 
tion. He continued struggling onward 
through the luxuriant growth for another 
hundred yards, searching for an open space, 
but the ground, flat and featureless as a din- 
ner plate, remained encumbered with the 
forestlike growth. He frequently heard the 
crashing of heavy bodies through the for- 
est, and knew that this young, moisture- 
drenched planet thronged with life. 

At no previous time had he regretted his 
infirmities so much as now. Here, all about 
him, stretched a young world, rich in vege- 
tation, rich in atmosphere, rich in animal 



life. He longed to walk beneath the pal- 
lid, gigantic vegetation, but he could not, 
for he already tow'ered above it! To ensure 
his safety, he had increased his stature to 
an extent that prohibited adventure. He 
was a giant, unable to do more than peer 
down into a weird, gloomy world. 

His old mmscles ached from the exer- 
tion of walking, and, seeing no sign of an 
open space where he might sit, he turned 
on his mechanism again until the great 
vegetation beneath him was no more than 
grass, inches high. Then he sat down, and 
held his forehead in his hands. He was 
deathly tired. 

H e made atmospheric tests, for sooner 
or later he must find a vrorld on which 
he could live. The atmosphere was rich in 
oxygen, saturated with water vapor, capable 
of supporting human life. He recharged 
his oxygen tanks, and standing erect, looked 
about him. 

The fog was so thick that he could not 
see the ground beneath his feet. He went 
on growing, growing, until his head topped 
the clouds. But there was no break in their 
ranks. They extended onward, like a mourn- 
ful sea, in every direction. He started walk- 
ing, in three-mile strides, and went on un- 
til he was tired. Occasionally he felt uneven 
hummocks beneath his feet, and knew them 
to be hills and mountains; again he felt 
water sopping his boots, and knew that he 
walked in rivers and lakes. But there was 
no end to the blanket of cloud. 

So, again, he looked into the heavens, at 
the great yellow sun warming this watery 
world, at the unfamiliar stars that would 
soon be atoms within his body, and slowly, 
tiredly, sent himself onward into the in- 
finite. 

While he grew, and w^hile universes and 
yet other universes became pinpoints of 
light within him, he slept. 

When he awoke it was to the same kalei- 
doscopic change he knew would be. Star 
clusters all about him leaped into view, 
diminished and vanished in puffs of light. 
He craned his head and read the dial of 
his oxygen tank. He had slept (although 
it is absurd to speak of time when every- 
where, except within his field, time flowed 
like a millrace) possibly tv/enty hours. With- 



THE ULTIMATE PARADOX 



65 



in a short time he would have to replenish 
his oxygen, or perish. 

Again the stars dimmed about him; the 
light from overhead strengthened. Once 
more he was surrounded by mountainous 
grains of sand, shrinking away from him 
as he grew, and he knew that he was upon 
the surface of a world. Here he found air, 
water, pleasant fields and gentle beasts, and 
he stayed on this planet many days. 

But because there was no life with which 
he could exchange ideas he became lonely, 
and presently he went on once more. Be- 
yond time, beyond space, beyond all things 
except himself, he climbed the awful lad- 
der he had built into infinity. The gray 
left his hair, and it was white. 

He lost count of the worlds he visited, 
and of the universes shrinking and growing 
before his eyes. He lost count of the times 
he slept, and of the food he ate, and of the 
things he saw. His life was a constant halt- 
ing, and going on. The prime motive in 
it was the oxygen tank, which he filled un- 
numerable times. 

So years, as his body knew years, 
passed. . . . 

H e met and conversed with creatures 
more perfect than humans, and with 
creatures of intelligence more abased than 
devils. He saw holes in space made by 
suns so great that not even light could go 
forth from them. He saw living things, 
without minds, more huge than Betelgeuse; 
he stood upon a great green planet so vast 
that, witlr pure force filling his field until 
he could barely lift an arm, he remained 
still so impalpable that he could walk 
through metals. He met a mighty philoso- 
pher on a tiny, dying planet, v/ho preferred 
to journey on with him. Together they con- 
structed an hermetically sealed cabinet, 
which, philosopher and all, he could carry 
within his pocket. 

They went on, and they might well 
enough have gone on together until they 
died, but for a strange thing. 

Once again they saw the universes fad- 
ing into lightless specks about them, and 
the brighter light flowing down from above. 
Once again the bits of inanimate matter 
became pebbles, and they stood in grass 
which tow'ered above them like a great for- 



est. The grass fell away from them, as 
they grew, and they looked upon a green 
world, into a blue, cloudless sky. They saw,, 
halfway down the sky, a yellow sun. And 
they thought, "This world is good.” 

The forest of grass fell to Doctor Sever- 
ance’s knees, and then to his ankles. Look- 
ing about him, he felt that tliis world re- 
minded him strangely of one he had left 
long ago. Then a few yards away, he saw 
the house he had lived in on Earth. . . . 

There was no mistaking it. Hie warm, 
brownish brick walls, the leaded windows, 
the sloping, slate roof, the trellised walk 
leading to the garden, everj'thing was there, 
as if he had only just stepped out of doors. 

Dazedly, he snapped off his mechanism. 
Another strange thing happened. Every- 
thing became black, as though he were 
blinded. He could still feel the earth be- 
neath his feet, but he could see nothing. 
He tried to take a step, and found that he 
could walk. Then, after he had taken a 
few steps, the sunlight burst upon his eyes 
again. Feeling slightly b-ewildered, he 
stumbled toward the house, a few feet 
ahead. 

Mechanically he tapped upon the glass 
window in the small cabinet in which the 
Philosopher lived, and watched , that circu-. 
lar transparency begin to revolve, as the 
Philosopher hastened to come out and join 
him. 

Walking like one confronted by an in- 
credibility, he entered the house, and went 
into his study. Nothing was changed, 
papers neatly piled beneath paperweights 
lay on his desk, and a warm midsummer’s 
breeze came into the room from the garden. 
He sat down at his desk, pillowed his face 
upon his arms, and tried to think. He lost 
tract of time, but long minutes, a half hour, 
hours passed. The Philosopher waited. 

There was a commotion at the front of 
the house, voices, footsteps. Beecham came 
in, followed by a policeman. . . . 

Nothing of a dramatic nature occurred. 
Doctor Severance looked up mildly, and 
asked Beecham what he wanted, and who 
the gentleman was, and the utterly bewil- 
dered Beecham mumbled something, and 
Captain Riley, thinking that Beecham was 
a fool, mumbled something also, and both 
men left the room. 



66 



WEIRD TALES 



But before they went out they did not 
fail to notice the little metallic box on the 
table, with its circular window, and the 
many-legged, scaly thing that emerged from 
it and sat upon it, and watched them 
through black, bottomless eyes. And 
Beecham looked suspiciously at the curious 
harness on the floor just behind the desk, 
and remembered that it was very like the 
harness he had seen on the monstrous thing 
standing in the lawn, earlier in the after- 
noon. 

In a very few days the apparition in the 
skies was forgotten. Beecham, alone, won- 
dered why, in an afternoon, Doctor Sever- 
ance’s hair had grown completely white. 

A nd in the laboratory, the two beings, 
the Philosopher and Doctor Severance, 
studied and planned and wondered. "They 
sought, among other things, to know what 
had become of the years during which they 
had wandered up the infinities. Dimly, 
they sensed behind that paradox a simple 
law, and, in the workings of that law, 
power. 

They built a curious globe, and on it 
they ruled innumerable circles, which they 
called by many names. And on this globe 
time was a circle, and a certain energy was 
another. And they sought to prove that, 
as Doctor Severance had gone through all 
matter and through all energy, so had he 
progressed over all time, from the begin- 
ning to the ending of things. And that, con- 



tinuing along the great circle drawn about 
the curious globe, representing energy, it 
necessarily followed that, reaching the point 
on its length from which he had started, 
the same point on the time circle would be 
in juxtaposition. What was time? 'They 
knew that our stellar universe had come 
and gone and come again a trillion times 
during each second they had lived on those 
other worlds. 

They sought to solve another truth; that 
in their bodies were all the universes, while 
yet they remained tiny motes upon one small 
planet circling a minor sim; that in the 
heavens were all things and, too, in every 
speck of dust were all things, that were, 
and are, and ever shall be. 

Now the Philosopher, who, despite his 
utter ugliness and loathsomeness (as 
judged by humans) was a great and noble 
soul, believed that, with more experience, 
might come a solution of the problems 
which evaded them. So it was that one 
evening Beecham, knocking at the study 
door and failing to receive an answer, went 
in, and found no one there. The strange 
harness was gone, and, although Beecham 
did not know, another like it. . . . 

Beecham, looking in the corner, observed 
the curious box in which he had seen the 
Philosopher. As yet uncertain whether to 
call in the police, he picked it up idly, and 
caught himself wishing, with regret, that he 
had had a better look, that day, at the 
creature the master picked up in the garden. 




In the July WEIRD TALES 



AUGUST DERLETH tells us about .... 

“The Watcher from the Sk] 

also 

MANLY WADE WELLMAN « RAY BRADBURY 
« ROBERT BLOCH EDMOND HAMiLTOI 



The Witch 

By WILLIAM De LISLE 

ipHE farmer loathed the priest 
for all his wealth 
and begged that I should 
take him off by stealth. 



He promised gold to work such deadly harm; 
he called him snouting Paul and shaveling monk 
and other names. Trembling with hate he slunk 
out of my hut. And I began the charm. 

I called for Meg to bring the mandrake weed 
that shrieks when it is dragged; 
for Rennie Stump who lives by Hangman’s Common 
to croon an incantation for the deed; 
we gathered in the cunning herbal woman 
to stew the simples: when the night was fit 
a dozen gib-cats round the throat we slit. 

Then sat we all beneath a westering star. 

We glared with malice on his window pane; 
and when we howled together for his bane 
the rectory casement gently swung ajar. 

He got him slowly, slowly, from his bed: 

the charm went blasting home — he fell down dead. 

Giles leapt for glee on his fresh-heapen mold 
but when I pleaded, cringing, for the gold, 
he spat and swore, and spurned me in a ditch. 

Out and aw'ay — he snarled — thou noisome witch. 

Staggers and glanders took his colts away; 

foot-rot destroyed his ewes and lambs: one day 
insane he gave his farmstead to the fire 
and hanged him from a rafter in his byre. 




6? 





usic-Box From Hell 

By EMIL PETAJA 



R OLPH mace hunched under the 
awning of the antique shop, glow- 
.ering at the March drizzle as he 
waited for his bus. If it hadn’t started to 
rain he could have walked, and saved seven 
pennies. Or if his Aunt Audrey would 
hurry up and die he wouldn’t have to maJce 
trips downtown for medicine. 



After she died he could shut up both the 
east and west wings of tlie old Mace Man- 
sion, and live in two little rooms in back. 
Wouldn’t cost one-quarter the money it cost 
now, with the east wing open, and her burn- 
ing gas all the time. And a part-time maid. 

Rolph’s pinched-up face grimaced at the 
thought of all that money going to waste, 



Heading by A. R. TILBURNE 




Recorded on metal in this i.i.ie box is a demoniac and cunning song 
to wtoico no man can listen 



68 



THE MUSIC-BOX FROM HELL 



69 



when it rightfully belonged to him — as her 
only heir. 

"Could I sell you anything?” a voice at 
his elbow asked suddenly. 

Rolph turned to see a cherub-faced little 
man wearing a frock coat and white side- 
whiskers smiling at him jovially. He was, 
apparently, the owner of the antique shop. 

Rolph gave a quick glance at the motley 
assortment of items in the pleasantly-littered 
window, and shuddered with actual horror 
at the thought of parting with hard cash for 
those things. 

His Aunt Audrey loved antiques. She 
loved music, too, and was forever ordering 
chamber music records on the sly. With her 
own money, of course — but Rolph had for 
more than ten years considered it his and re- 
seated every mouthful she ate. 

He turned his lean, stooped shoulders 
away from this shop-owner in high distaste, 
not deigning to even answer him. 

"I have just about anything you might 
want, inside,” the odd little man went on 
affably. ’’Anything.” 

"I don’t want anything,” snapped Rolph. 

"Nothing?” said the little man. "You 
must be very happy. ...” 

Rolph’s pinched, bird-like features puck- 
ered. Yes, there was something he wanted. 
He wanted Aunt Audrey to die. .... 

w-y'ou see that ring on the white velvet, 

X just under the candelabra?” the little 
man with the side-whiskers went on, insinu- 
atingly,, paying no heed to Rolph’s obvious 
snub. "That once belonged to the Borgias. 
Lucrezia, I believe. Quite adept in the art 
of poisoning — ^they tell me. ...” 

Rolph’s lip twitclied. He gave a quick 
look at the ring, scowling. 

"Of course, me — ” the little man contin- 
ued, 'Td choose some other method of — er 
—eliminating besides poison. It can always 
be traced.” 

Rolph’s lip curled contemptuously. He 
knew that! How well he knew that! Hadn’t 
he tried to figure a way by which . . . 

The little man chuckled, as at a secret 
joke. 

Rolph began to squirm. 

"What way would you use?” he asked, 
licking his thin lips. 

"Music.” 



’’Music!” 

"Why, yes.” 

"But—” 

"Sorry. I have to go in now.” The weird 
little man moved into the dusky doorway. 
"In case you’re ever in the market for some 
really remarkable antiques — ” 

"Wait — ” Rolph cried. He didn’t quite 
know why. 

But the little man was gone. 

T he suburban bus came and went, but 
Rolph just stood there under the awn- 
ing, racked by indecision. Finally, with a 
little growl, he stepped into the antique 
shop doorway, where the little man had dis- 
appeared, and wormed his way past littered 
tables to a little dark back ro6m. 

There was the little man, all smiles. 
“Decided there was something you 
wanted, after all, eh?” 

Rolph nodded uncertainly. 

"I want — ■” He must be subtle about this. 
"I want a present for my Aunt.” 

The little man chuckled. 

"Ah! An Aunt who loves antiques!” 

"She also is very fond of — music,” Rolph 
put in hastily. 

"Ah! Antiques. Music. Good!” The 
little man rubbed his pudgy hands together 
happily. "This Aunt of yours is — ^perhaps 
— wealthy?” 

Rolph scowled. 

"Ah! Mustn’t ask personal questions, 
must we!” The little man bustled over to a 
dark corner, and pulled a string connerted 
to a bare light bulb. Unhappy orange light 
sprayed the crowded little room. "It so hap- 
pens tlrat I have just the thing you want, un- 
less I am sadly mistaken!” 

He tugged a small ornamented box off a 
shelf, and set it down on the table in front 
of them. Whipping a silk handkerchief out 
of his pocket, he began -to polish it vigor- 
ously. 

"What is it?” Rolph asked, eyeing the 
black oblong box dubiously. 

’’Katchooo!” the little man sneezed, from 
the dust. "Pardon me. This — ” He pointed 
at it dramatically, "is called tlse music-hox 
from Hell!” 

Rolph sniffed. He didn’t relish idle 
melodramatics. He wanted to buy, or — 
better still — cajol the old man’s music- 



70 



WEIRD TALES 



murder secret, and get back to Mace Man- 
sion. 

“All right,” he said impatiently, when the 
little man paused. "Why is it called the 
music-box from Hell?” 

The little man pursed his lips gravely. 
“That, my son, is a long story.” 

“Well, I don’t want to hear it.” 

"No?” The little man’s face fell. "Well, 
suf&ce to say that this music-box was manu- 
factured by the wizard, Syn Borkillish, of 
Nurenburg, in the early Sixteenth Century. 
It constitutes the result of a particularly 
fiendish pact he made with an evil power. 
He—” 

"Get to the point, man!” hissed Rolph. 
"What can it do?” 

The little man’s eyes, bright as shoe but- 
tons, seemed to look right into Rolph’s 
miserly mind. 

"Recorded on metal in this little box,” he 
said, "is a daenioniac and cunning song to 
which no man can listen without — ” 

"Yes?” 

"Without being snatched off the face of 
(he earth into the nethermost Hell!” 

Rolph’s piggish eyes snapped fire. 

"And you expect me to believe all that 
medieval nonsense!” 

"The little man shrugged. 

"Would you like a sample?” 

Rolph blinked. 

"But — ” 

The little man laughed gleefully. 

"No. Hearing just a few notes or strains 
can’t hurt you. It’s the whole song. It forms 
a hideous pattern which at last seizes hold 
of its victim’s mind and soul, and finally — 
as the last plangent chords are sounded — by 
an evil rearrangement of his vibratory pat- 
tern, the listener is swept irresistibly into 
the Black Limbo where the demon who con- 
ceived this vile song holds sw'ay. , . 

R olph gaped at the strange little box 
with new respect. 

"Shall we have a sample?” the little man 
invited again. 

"No. I’ll take your word for it,” Rolph 
replied hastily. "But — I don’t see any levers 
or dials on it. How do you set it running?” 
"By simply calling out the demon’s 
name.” 

"Which is—?” 



The little man said it, whereupon the box 
came to audible life. A windy sigh escaped 
it, w'hich abruptly grew to the proportions 
of a banshee’s tormented wail. At times the 
song had a hauntingly sweet character, but 
under this melodic line were sinister, mock- 
ing intimations of carnate sin and evilness. 

'The non-human voice seemed to beckon 
— to call Rolph into timeless depths. . . . 

First it was merely unnerving, then un- 
bearable. 

"Shut it off!” he shrieked. 

The little man shouted another outlandish 
word. The song vanished. 

Rolph’s pinched face illuminated with 
avarice. He almost drooled. 

He must get hold of that box! It would 
dispose of Aunt Audrey beautifully, and no 
one would ever know. Corpus delicti, you 
understand. Then she wouldn’t be around 
any more to waste money on medicine and 
part-time maids, and order phonograph rec- 
ords on the sly. 

But — he mustn’t act eager. He would 
outwit this simple fool — ^get the music-box 
for nothing, if humanly possible. 

He ran his finger gingerly along its 
weirdly-cold surface. 

"How much are you asking for this piece 
of junk?” he asked casually. 

'The little man beamed on him. 

"Oh, a mere nothing. Ten thousand dol- 
lars.” 

"Ten thousand dol — And that’s your 
rock-bottom price?” 

"I’m afraid so.” The little man sighed. 
"I wouldn’t sell it at all, only I need the 
money so desperately. You see, my shop is 
mortgaged to the hilt.” 

"Umm.” Rolph’s eyes narrowed craftily. 
After all, once Aunt Audrey was out of the 
way he could return the music-box, and tell 
this stupid little fool he’d changed his mind. 
Thus he would get the use of it without 
having paid a cent! "I’ll take it. Only — I’ll 
have to send you a check tomorrow morning. 
Will that be satisfactc: ?” 

The little man nodded, rather wistfully. 

"Yes, That will be fine.” 

UDREY MACE was a sweet-faced old 
lady who found it more expedient to 
let her half-sister’s penurious olfspring man- 
age the affairs of her lovely old house on 




THE MUSIC-BOX FROM HELL 



*71 



Windsholm Hill. Ail she asked of life now 
was to sit by her little parlor gas-fire and 
listen to Haydn or Mozart on her old phono- 
graph. 

Even that pleasure had been dimmed in 
latter years, not only by Rolph’s persistent 
growlings about tlie few record albums she 
allowed herself to purchase, but by the fact 
that she was slowly going deaf, and had to 
resort to the use of a hearing aid. 

She had lived an abundant life, and her 
memories were with her always, like a warm 
shawl to cover her chilling bones. 

As the dying rays of the sun sifted 
through the dripping elm leaves outside her 
window, she sat motionless in her favorite 
wing-back chair, staring sadly at the blue 
gas-flame. 

Her blue-veined fingers toyed with the 
hearing-aid box in her lap. 

Rolph swept bat-like into the cozy old- 
fashioned room, and immediately switched 
off the little lamp by her elbow, and turned 
down the gas. 

"You don’t need a light yet!” he shouted 
in annoyance. "And it’s not cold out!” 

Aunt Audrey appeared not to notice. She 
smiled w'anly. Rolph always acted as if they 
were paupers. It was true there wasn’t as 
much money as there had been, but there 
was plenty — more than enough for anything 
they might need. 

"Rolph, I was wondering if — ” 

"Listen, Aunt Audrey,” Rolph burst out, 
waving a slip of paper. "You’ve been buy- 
ing records again! Twenty-one dollars in 
the last three months! My God, do you 
think I’m made of money!” 

Aunt Audrey looked bewildered, but said 
nothing. She sat quite still while he went 
through his scathing denunciations of all 
musicians and all music. His indignation at 
finding that bill in the mail box on his way 
home had made him forget for a moment, 
all about the music-box. . . . 

"Rolph,” she ventured timidly, when his 
tirade subsided. "I hate to ask you to do it, 
but could you run downtown again, and 
buy — ” 

"Buy, buy, buy!” he shrieked. "You do 
nothing but sit here all day thinking up 
things to buy!” 

His aunt’s eyes left his furious face and 
went wearily back to the frugal gas-fire. 



"All right, dear. It doesn’t really mat- 
ter ” 

A ll in a rush Rolph remembered the 
music-box. So with an awkward show 
of affection he bent down and pecked at 
Aunt Audrey’s withered cheek. 

"Anyway,” he tittered nervously, "I can't 
go downtown now. I happened to pass an 
antique shop, and so I went in and bought 
something for you!” 

Now was a good time to do it, Rolph 
thought, his crafty eyes roving. The maid 
was gone for the day. No one would be 
calling. Besides, he wanted to be able to 
send the thing back to the shop tomorrow 
morning, so he wouldn’t have to pay for it. 

He brought the oddly-carved box in and 
set it down on the table, just in front of his 
aunt’s chair. 

"A present? For me?” 

Aunt Audrey was incredulous and ex- 
cited as a girl. 

"Why, this is so sweet of you, Rolph. ...” 
She sat back in her chair, dabbing at her 
eyes with a lace handkerchief, overcome 
with emotion. So Rolph did love her after 
all — to bring her such a beautiful gift! 

"It’s a music-box,” Rolph explained, 
nervously. And, in a cracked voice, he called 
out the demon’s name. 

He looked a last look down at her gray 
head, and his thin lips parted in a ghoulish 
leer. 

Aunt Audrey sat back in her chair, a bliss- 
ful smile on her face. A gift from Rolph! 
Why, surely she had misjudged him all 
these years! 

The fearful song spawned in the gather- 
ing gloom. The moaning wind. The ban- 
shee’s keening. The falsely-sweet mel- 
ody. . . . 

"I’ve got to get out of here!” Rolph mut- 
tered, and fled. 

Aunt Audrey leaned forward, listening 
intently, a sparkle in her blue eyes. 

Rolph took a last backward glance, then 
ran up the swirling stairway. He didn’t 
want to be caught in the web of that unholy 
song from Hell. . . . 

R olph spent half an hour upstairs, gloat- 
ing. Now the whole estate was his. 
Mace Mansion, and the park surrounding it. 



72 



WEIRD TALES 



Ail Aunt Audrey’s securities, and her lovely 
dollars in the bank. ... 

"It must be all over by now,” he told him- 
self, triumphantly, and sped downstairs. 

It took only one glance in the little parlor 
to tell him that something had gone wrong. 

Blazing rage took possession of Roiph as 
he saw tliat his Aunt Audrey still sat, there 
in her chair, placid and smiling. He cursed 
as he ran to her, and the fury in his eyes 
made the old lady shiver. 

He turned to the music-box, which was 
still venting its uncanny song, whidi had 
now become incredibly soft and sinister, like 
the hissing of serpents. 

"It’s a fake!” Roiph shrieked, sdbbing 
with disappointment. "The box hasn’t any 
supernatural power! The antique shop 
owner tricked me!” 

Aunt Audrey seemed to be smiling — ^as if 
she knew! 

"I’ll fix it!” cried Roiph, striding to the 
t ’.ble and reaching for the box. "I’ll break it 

a million—” 

What was happening? 

His hands trembled, refusing to touch the 
box. 

. It was his ears! Something was wrong 
with his ears! 

"God! What—” 

Searing pain severed his brain. In one 
brief flash knowledge came to him, but by 
then it was too late. 

It luas the music — the demon’s song. 

its unhallowed patterns had woven about 
his brain and ensnared it. Just in that brief, 
unwary moment. . . . And now his mind 
was incapable of thinking coherently. It 
couldn’t remember the word that would stop 
'.he music and free him. Nor could his mind 
direct his leg-muscles to act — ^to run. . . . 

Everything blurred in his sight. The ro- 
coco wallpaper patterns blended into one 
empurpled smear. The prim little parlor be- 
ca.me the vortex of a maelstrom. 

Roiph clutclied at his throat involuntarily. 

The music w’ent wild, chaotic, then 
rerxlied a monstrous climax. . . . 



^<TTELLO. Is anybody home?” 

-Lj- ' An odd little figure in a frock coat 
and white side-whiskers peeked into the 
silent parlor. His shoe-button eyes saw Aunt 
Audrey sitting quietly in her chair, watching 
the blue gas-flame. 'Ihen they saw the music- 
box on the table. 

The little man uttered an improbable 
word. 'The demoniac music stopped, 

"Forgive my unseemly intrusion,” the 
little man said, stepping toward Aunt Aud- 
rey’s chair. "I’ve been knocking on your 
door for hours, it seems. I wouldn’t have 
burst in this way, only it’s terribly impor- 
tant. You see, I contracted to sell a young 
man who lives at this address a music-box, 
and — ” 

He paused to stare gravely down at a pe- 
culiar green splotch on the faded carpet, 
then v/ent on. 

"I’ve thought it over carefuly, and de- 
cided that this particular music-box is not to 
be sold, .ever. In fact. I’ve decided to burn 

it. ...” 

"My nephew is — •” the old lady began. 

"So you are the aunt he was buying it 
for!” The little man shook his head and 
clucked his tongue indignantly. "I can see 
how right I was to come here. So you’re the 
lady who dotes on antiques and music! Weil, 
well! I practically bankrupted myself be- 
cause I couldn’t bear to part with my treas- 
ures. You and I have mutual manias, so it 
would seem logical that we — ” 

Aunt Audrey stopped him with a merry 
laugh. 

“You might just as v/ell stop talking, 
sir!” she exclaimed. "I can’t hear a word 
you’re saying. My nephew, who seems to 
have gone Out, brought me this lovely old 
music-box. Of course, I couldn’t hear it 
either.” 

She sighed v/istfully. "I just knoiv it 
plays some lovely Mozart melody! You 
see, sir, the battery in my hearing aid went 
dead this afternoon — ^and dear Roiph didn’t 
seem to want to spare the money to buy an- 
other!” 




Only one sort of illness co?nes and goes thusly, and evils 
other than germs bring it on 



ently true; but Thunstone had felt dizzy and 
faint as he entered, and as he left he had to 
call on the final ounce of power in his big 
body to keep from failing on the sidewalk. 



f g ^HE doctor told John Thunstone 
I that nothing v/as wrong with him, 
B and for the time they were to- 
gether in the examining room it was appar- 



Eeading by A. R. TILBURNE 



/ 






IJmSk 







-/3lood 



From a Stone 



By MANLY WADE WELLMAN 



73 




74 



WEIRD TALES 



"This tells me what I had to know,” he 
assured himself. "Only one sort of illness 
comes and goes so conveniently for those 
who hate me. And evils other than germs 
bring it on.” 

A taxi returned him to his hotel, and 
during the ride he mastered his weakness 
of limb enough to enter the lobby and ride 
up in the elevator without being noticed 
by any guests or attendants, vdiose impulse 
to help would have been useless and em- 
barrassing. His key weighed a ton as he 
unlocked the door of his suite. Once inside, 
he leaned against the jamb as though he 
had been shot through the body. Then, 
walking leadenly to his desk, he fumbled 
out a w'orn, dingy little book entitled Egyp- 
tian Secrets and bearing, perhaps inaccu- 
rately the name of Albertus Magnus and 
author. 

Inside the back cover his own hand had 
jotted down a sort of index. Under the 
heading Persons bewitched and punishment 
of sorcerers were listed some twenty page 
numbers. He sought the first, but it in- 
cluded an invocation to something called 
"bedgoblin," which he did not feel like per- 
forming just then. Instead he leafed 
through to the fifty-fourth page, where the 
third paragraph was headed To cite a 
witch. 

"Take an unglazed earthen pot,” began 
the instructions, and John Thimstone 
reached for a cylindrical clay vessel with a 
tight-fitting cover and an Indian pattern. 
From various containers in his desk drawers 
he measured in the substances called for in 
the formula. Finally he plugged in the 
connection of an electric grill, clamped the 
lid tightly on the day cylinder, and set it 
upside down on the glowing wires. "Sum- 
mon the sorcerer,” he muttered, reading 
from the book. 

Every audible word seemed to drain 
away one more drop of his strength. "Sum- 
mon the sorcerer before me.” 

He turned to page 16: 

When a Man or Beast is Plagued 
I by Goblins or Ill-Disposed People 

Go on Friday or Golden Sunday, 
ere the sun rise in the East, to a hazel- 
nut bush. Cut a stick therefrom with 
a sympathetic weapon, by making 



three cuts above the hand toward the 
rise of the sun, in the name of . . . 

Thunstone numbly congratulated himself 
in following these instructions some years 
before. His head swam, his eyes seemed 
oppressed by alternate flashes of light and 
blotches of gloom, but he staggered to the 
closet and groped in it for a padcage. Tear- 
ing away the wrapping of stout paper, he 
produced a rough-trimmed piece of hazel 
wood, the length and thickness of a walking 
stick. As his hand grasped its thicker end, 
he felt better, and turned toward the grill. 

Vapor of some sort rose around his day 
jar. In it he saw, or thought he saw, move- 
ment. As he walked toward that part of 
the room, his feet steadier and stronger, the 
moving object grew large and plain. 

S OMEWHERE a man in a gray gown or 
robe was busy at a rough table. Thun- 
stone saw him, like a dimly-cast image on 
a motion picture screen, bending over his 
work, his hands shifting here and there in 
nimble manipulation. On the table had 
been outlined a little figure at full length, 
a man of powerful proportions that might 
be copied after Thunstone’s own. The gray- 
robed one held a sheaf of sharp metal sliv- 
ers, tlrrusting their points, one by one, into 
the pictured arms, throat, body. 

"A Shonokin,” said Thunstone. "I 

thought that. And I thought he would be 
doing just what he is doing. Now — ” 

His big hand took a firmer grip of the 
hazel cane, and he stepped forward and 
swung it. 

The wood swept into the cloud of vapor 
and the image there cast. It swished through, 
without seeming to disturb the misty cloud, 
and the figure in the gown sprang convul- 
sively back from the table. A face came into 
view at the top of the gown, a face framed 
in longish black hair, with sharp fine fea- 
tures. The mouth opened as if to cry out, 
a hand lifted, and Thunstone struck through 
the vapor again. 

The figure cowered. Its arms crossed in 
front of the face, trying to w>^ard oflf an at- 
tack that must have seemed incomprehen- 
sible. The hands were frail and lean, and 
the third fingers longer than the middle 
fingers. 



BLOOD FROM A STONE 



75 



With increasing strength and precision, 
Thunstone lashed and smote. He saw the 
gowned body going down now, and poked 
it once, as with a sword-point. Finally he 
swept his stick at the reflected table-top and 
saw the slivers flying from their lodgments 
in the outlined body there. Stepping back, 
he turned off his electric grill. The vapor 
vanished instantly, and with it the images. 
Thunstone drew a deep, grateful breath of 
air. He was no longer weak, unsteady or 
blurred in his mind. 

His first act was to open his pen-knife, 
cut a tally notch in the hazel stick. Care- 
fully he rewrapped it, and carefully he 
stowed, it away. A weapon that has de- 
feated enchantment once is doubly effective 
in defeating it again — that is a common- 
place of sorcery. He sat at the desk and 
from the top drawer drew the sheets of 
paper on which he was writing, as he found 
it out, all that could be said about the 
strange things called Shonokins. 

"Their insistence upon an ancestry far 
niore ancient and baleful than anything hu- 
man may have a solid foundation of fact,” 
wrote Thunstone. "Whenever paleontol- 
ogists have probed the graves of the past 
on tlris continent as tlioroughly as they have 
probed in Europe, perhaps remains of a 
species resembling man, though interest- 
ingly not man, may be turned up to support 
the Shonokin claims. More and mmre do I 
incline to believe that here in America once 
lived such things, developing their own cul- 
ture and behavior — -just as in Europe fifty 
thousand years ago lived the Neanderthal 
race, also non-human as we know humans 
(not that the first Shonokins were Nean- 
derthaloid or like any other ancient manlilce 
creature yet discovered in fossil). 

"And, just as the Neanderthals were 
wiped out in some unthinkably desperate 
warfare with the first invading homo sa- 
piens, so the ancestors of the Red Indian 
race must have swept away the fathers of 
the Shonokins — though not all of them. It 
would have been a war horrible beyond 
thought, with no sparing of vanquished 
enemies at the end. Somehow, a few sur- 
vivors escaped, and our evidence is the ex- 
istence of Shonokins today. How those 
beaten people lived, and where, cannot be 
even guessed luitil we learn from what 



place their modern children venture forth 
among us, in their avowed attempts to re- 
cover rule of their old domain. 

"The Shonokin enchanments, or attempts 
at enchantments, I shall discuss at another 
place. What remains is to cite certain defi- 
nite racial traits that set these interesting 
creatures apart from us as human beings. 
True, they resemble men at first glance. 
This may be deliberate imitation of some 
sort, and more may be said on this part of 
the subject when an unclad Shonokin is 
examined. Their heads, though habitually 
covered with long hair, perhaps in disguise, 
betray strange skull formations that be- 
token a brain not inferior to the human but 
of a much different shape. Here may be 
the basic reason for differences in Shonokin 
ethics and reactions to all things, physical 
and spiritual. Again, the third finger of 
the Shonokin hand is the longest, instead 
of the middle finger as with true men. To 
what remote ancestry this may trace is im- 
possible to say, as even the lower beasts as 
we know them have in the forepaw a longer 
middle toe than—” 

His telephone rang. It was the clerk at 
the desk. A gentleman wanted to see Mr. 
Thunstone. Might he come up? 

"I’ll come down,” said Thunstone, rose 
and put away his unfinished manuscript. He - 
left the suite, locked it carefully, and rode 
down in the elevator, whistling under his 
breath. 

His visitor was lean, just shorter than 
Thunstone’s own lofty self, and wore a 
long light coat and a pulled down hat. He 
bowed and held out a hand with a very long 
third finger. Thunstone failed, or pre- 
tended to fail, to see the hand. 

"Come and sit in the lobby,” he invited, 
and led the stranger to a brace of comfort- 
able cliairs in a far corner. They sat down. 
At once the Shonokin took off his hat and 
leaned his gaunt, fine face close to Thun- 
stone. 

"How much?” he demanded. 

T hunstone leaned b^k, and from his 
pocket drew pipe and tobacco-pouch. 
He filled the pipe and lighted it. The 
Shonokin ducked his head sidev/ise in 
disgust. 

"That filthy habit, learned from Amer- 



76 



WEIRD TALES 



lean savages!” he growled; and Thunstone 
remembered that tobacco mixed with herbs 
had been considered in old Indian days an 
incense to the Great Spirit and a near-fatal 
fumigation to evil beings. Had not Kalas- 
pup — or Kwasind or Hiawatha, whatever 
his real name was — sat in enjoyment of the 
thick tobacco-fumes in the lodge, while his 
attackers, the water-goblins, turned sick and 
vomiting? Such evidence as he, Thunstone, 
uncovered tended more and more to prove 
that all monsters and devils of Indian leg- 
end were identifiable with the Shonokins. 

"How much?” said his visitor again. 
"We know you well enough, Thunstone, 
to know that you are not a slave to money. 
But there are other things you value. Name 
them.” 

"You want to buy me off,” replied Thus>- 
stone. "Is this an admission of defeat?” 
"An admission of irritation,” was the re- 
ply. "Being tormented by a stinging in- 
sect, which it is irksome to brush away, one 
spills honey in another place to attract it.” 
"My sting is not drawn as easily as that,” 
Thunstone assured him. "Your journey is 
for nothing. Go back and tell that to the 
other Shonokins. Just now I am more than 
irritating. Haven’t I seen two of you die?” 
"No more of that!” The Shonokin lifted 
his left hand, its long third finger extended 
in what Thunstone judged to be a gesture 
averting ill omen. No Shonokin cares even 
to speak of the death of his own kind. 

"You used magic against me,” went on 
Thunstone, "magic so old as to be trite — 
poking and piercing my likeness. Men were 
successfully averting that sort of sympa- 
thetic hokus-pocus as long ago as Salem 
witchcraft days.” 

"It is not the extent of our power,” was 
the harsh reply. "But you have not an- 
swered my question. Again, how much?” 
"Again, you are wasting your time. Even 
a Shonokin’s time must be wortli something 
to himself. Good day.” 

T he strange-shaped left hand dipped- into 
a pocket of the long coat. 

'T make a last attempt, Thunstone. Here 
is something you will find interesting.” 
The hand reappeared. Between its fin- 
gertips was a great glitter of light. 

"Jewels? I do not even wear them,” said 



Thunstone, but then his eyes were fixed on 
the thing. 

He saw it was no jewel he knew. For an 
instant he fancied it was a bit of phosphor- 
escence, or some sort of lamp — but no lamp, 
no phosphorus, gleaned like that. It’s glare 
possessed his whole vision, seemed to beat 
through his eyes and pierce his skull behind 
them. Like a Brahmin looking into the 
sun, he was blinded; like a Brahmin look- 
ing into the sun, he could not look away. 

"Rise,” the Shonokin said, "and come 
v,?ith me.” 

Thunstone leaned in the direction of the 
voice, and blev^ out all the tobacco smoke 
in his lungs. 

A cry, terrible and strangled, rang in his 
very ears, arid the light seemed to flash 
off. There was an abrupt clinic on the floor, 
as though a half-dollar had dropped, and he 
sat up, alone. The tobacco smoke hung in 
the air around him, a little blue misty swad- 
dling through which he saw two figures — 
the scurrying long-coated Shonolcin, the ap- 
proaching hotel manager. 

Thunstone put the pipe back in his 
mouth, shutting his eyes a moment to cleanse 
them of their blur. He would have smiled, 
but decided not to. The manager was ques- 
tioning him. 

"What happened to that man, Mr. Thun- 
stone?” 

"He was taken suddenly ill,” replied 
Thunstone. "It’s really nothing for us to 
worry about.” 

"You’re all right?” 

"I’m all right,” nodded Thunstone. 

The manager’s eyes dropped fioorward. 
"Careful! You dropped a coal from your 
pipe — step on it.” 

'Iliunstone, too, glanced down to a little 
crumb of radiance paler and brighter than 
any tobacco fire. "No, don’t. That’s a 
piece of cut-glass jewelry — rather skillful 
cutting and polishing — I’ll take care of it.” 

He whipped the handkerchief from his 
breast pocket, dropped it over the glaring 
object and gathered it up in his big hand. 

"You’ve cut your finger,” said the man- 
ager. "There’s a spot of blood on your 
handkerchief,” 

"Not my blood,” Thunstone told him, 
"but this thing needs careful handling.” 
With the cambric-swaddled lump still in 



BLOOD FROM A STONE 



77 



his hand, he levered his bulk out of the 
chair. "I think I’ll have dinner in my 
suite this evening. What’s good?” 

A gain in his sitting room, Thunstone 
laid a china plate on his desk. Then 
he chose a drinking glass from the tray 
beside his carafe, and struck match after 
match, painstakingly smudging its interior. 
Finally he flipped the gleaming thing upon 
the plate and quickly covered it with the 
dulled glass. He was able to look at it 
then without agony to his eyes. 

The object was the size of an almond, 
smoothly curved on its entire surface. Not 
a single facet could he detect. But its light, 
even though impeded by the soot on the 
glass, was steady and strong. He drew his 
shades and turned out the electric lights in 
the room. Still it shone, illuminating ob- 
jects to the farthest walls. Inside the ob- 
ject was some source of radiance, steady and 
insistent and intense. 

Mufiling it still more by dropping his 
handkerchief over the upturned glass, Thun- 
stone sat back, smoked and thought, xifter 
some minutes, he took up his telephone and 
called a number which he did not have to 
look up. 

The woman who answered was tremen- 
dously interested in the questions Thun- 
stone asked, and had many questions of her 
own. Thunstone evaded the necessity of 
direct. replies, and finally when she recom- 
mended another informant thanked her and 
hung up. His second call was long dis- 
tance to Boston, where a retired professor 
of American folklore greeted him warmly 
as an old friend and gave him further, more 
specific information, finally naming a book. 

"I have that book right here,” said Thun- 
stone. "And I should have thought of the 
reference without bothering you. Thanks 
and let’s see each other soon. I may have 
about half of a story to tell you.” 

He hung up again, and went to his shelf. 
The book he chose was slim and green, like 
a cheap textbook. It was John M. Tay- 
lor’s Witchcraft Delusion in Colonial Con- 
necticut, published in 1908 as an item of the 
Grafton Historical Series. 

Almost idly Thunstone leafed through 
the restrained but fascinating account of a 
multiple charge of diabolism and its evi- 



dence and trial, almost forgotten today 
though it made grim history full tliirty years 
before the more familiar Salem incidents. 
Chapter 10 began with notes on the trial 
of Goodwife Knapp in New Haven during 
May of 1654, a trial that included evidence 
by a dozen neighbors and ended with the 
defendant’s death on the gallows. But it 
was not the adventures of Goodwife Knapp 
so much as those of a witness, Mary Staple, 
Staplyes, or Staplies, that drew Thunstone’s 
attention: 

. . . she, ye said Knapp, voluntarily, 
without any occasion given her, said 
that goodwife Staplyes told her, the 
said Knapp, than an Indian brought vnto 
her, tire said Staplyes, two little things 
brighter then the light of the day, and 
told the said goodwife Staplyes tliey were 
Indian gods, as the Indian called ym; 
and the Indian withall told her, the said 
Staplyes, if she would keep them, she 
would be so big rich, all one god, and 
that the said Staplyes told the said Knapp, 
she gaue them again to the said Indian, 
but she could not tell whether she did 
so or no. 

Thunstone savored the quaint spelling 
and syntax as he read. ". . .so big rich, all 
one god ...” What did that mean? He 
turned two more pages, the evidence of one 
Goodwife Sherwood, and a story set down 
at fourth hand — ^the same story as before: 

. . . goodwife Baldwin whispered her 
in the eare and said to her that goodwife 
Knapp told her that a woman in ye towne , 
was a witch and would be hanged within 
a twelue moneth, and would confess her- 
selfe a witch and cleere her that she was 
none, and that she asked her how she 
knew she was a witch, and she told her 
she had reeived Indian gods of an In- 
dian, wch are shining things, wch shine 
lighter then the day. Then this depont 
asked goodwife Knapp if she had said 
so, and she denyed it; goodwife Baldwin 
affirmed that she did, but Knapps wife 
againe denyed it and said she knowes no 
woman in the towne that is a witch, nor 
any woman that hath received Indian 
gods, but she said there was an Indian 



78 



WEIRD TALES 



at a womans house and olierred her a 
coople of shining things, but the woman 
neuer told her she took them, but was 
afraide and ran away . . . 

There was more beyond of Mary Staplies. 
The book called her a "light woman,” 
shrewd and shrewish, who spoke in Good- 
wife Knapp’s defense. Later she too was 
on trial and released, and her husband sued 
her accusers. She did not sound timid, by 
all accounts, yet on her own showing she 
had run fearfully from the "Indian” who 
offered her something shining brighter than 
daylight. 

"Shonokins look like Indians,” muttered 
Tlrunstone, "if you do not notice their third 
lingers.” 

He took time to feel sorry for the Puri- 
tan elders, not versed in demonology and 
not even well versed in grammar or law, 
who were faced with whatever faced them 
three hundred years ago. 

Well, then: The wife of a New England 
colonist had lied refusing from a bright talis- 
man that would make her "big rich.” He, 
Tliunstone, was in possession of such a 
thing. The Shonokin had fled this time, los- 
ing his charm — or had he? Was this, per- 
haps, a device to make Thunstone accept 
a bribe or wage? 

Thunstone laid down the book and raised 
the handkerchief. There was a fleck of 
blood on it, as the manager had said; and 
on the dish, too, seeping from under the 
imprisoning glass. Within, the shining ob- 
ject seemed to float, like a gleaming bit of 
ice on a dark sea. 

Thunstone took from a cabinet some 
chemical vessels, tubes and flasks of liquid. 
Carefully he secured a portion of the blood, 
diluted it, made frowning tests. He v/ound 
up shaking his head over the precipitation in 
his solution. 

Blood, yes. Mammalian, surely. Human, 
no. What creature could be matched with 
that blood he could not say. Perhaps no 
scientist could say. He felt his eyes drawn 
again to the thing under the glass. 

It was no longer a jewel, or anything 
like a jewel. In the little w^allow of blood 
lay a skull the size of his thumb, pallid in- 
stead of glaring, its cranium shaped strange- 
ly, bulging here and pinched in there. Its 



black eye-sockets seemed to meet his gaze 
and challenge it. Its wee, perfect jawbone 
stirred on its hinge, and two rows of per- 
fect, pointed little teeth parted, then snicked 
together as if in hunger or menace. 

T hunstone watched, as closely as 
when the Shonokin had first dipped the 
mystery from his pocket, but with all his 
defenses, mental- and spiritual, up. Skulls 
of any size and shape must not frighten 
him, he decided. And — ^his memory flashed 
back to the Indian tales of Kalaspup — ^mag- 
ical skulls had been employed before this 
by Shonokins against mankind, and had 
been defeated. 

It was only the size of a thumb, anyvray. 
No, a trifle larger, the size of an egg. A 
big egg. And the glass that covered it was 
smaller than Thunstone had thought, the 
skull-appearance crowded it. 

' As Thunstone gazed, the jawbone moved, 
the teeth gnashed, a second time. The 
movement stirred the glass, tilted and upset 
it. The glass roiled to the floor, broke with 
a muffled clash of fragments. The egg- 
sized skull was suddenly orange size. Its 
sockets were no longer dark but glowed 
greenly, as with some sort of phosphor- 
escent rot. With a waggle of its jawbone 
it hunched itself from the plate, a little 
nearer to Thunstone. Yet again its teeth, 
big enough to show their pointed formation, 
snapped hungrily. 

Thunstone argued with himself that 
worse things than this had come to him in 
the past, that a skull so small w'ould be eas- 
ily crushed — -but already it was bigger, big- 
ger still. It flipped over, rolled from the 
table, swam through the air at him. As it 
snapped its jaw's, he batted it aw'ay, palm 
outward, as if playing handball. The thing 
was as cold as a flying snowball, and as he 
deflected it, it almost sank its sharp teeth 
into his finger. It struck a wall, bounced 
and caromed back, so that he ducked oniy 
just in time. The w^all where it had touched 
so briefly bore a spatter of blood. On its 
new course the skull flew into the bedroom, 
and Thunstone pulled the door shut. 

At once something was bumping, shov- 
ing, dem,anding entrance to the parlor. The 
panels of the door creaked, but held. The 
blows grew heavier, more insistent. Was 



BLOOD FROM A STONE 



79 



the thing growing still more — would it 
grow and grow, to the size of a boulder, a 
table, a house? Thunstone, eyes on the 
closed door, mustered his wits for some- 
thing new in defense. He thought quickly 
of the Connecticut visitation of terror, of 
witnesses at the witch-trials who had 
spoken of enchantments that smacked of 
hypnotism or hallucination and of grimmer 
things — ^"jfiry eies” with no head to con- 
tain them, and a brief glimpse of something 
"v/ith a great head and wings and noe 
boddy and all black.” Well, if Shonokins 
had not triumphed there, they would not 
triumph here. 

The knockings had ceased, and there was 
a questing flash of light at the lower chink 
of the door, then something began slowly 
to pour out. 

Thunstone thought at first it was some 
slow, pale-grey liquid, but it held its shape. 
The forepart of a flat, ugly skate or ray 
sometimes steals into view like that from 
hiding in shallow water — -a blunt point 
like a nose, a triangle of pale tissue as flat 
as though hammered down. This trembled 
a bit, as if exploring the air by smell or feel. 
It came out more, and more. 

I T WAS not a flattened skull, for bone 
would have splintered; but had a skull 
been modeled in softness, then pressed as 
thin as paper, it might be like that. It still had 
a jointed jaw, the semblance of needle teeth, 
and eye-sockets that looked up at Thunstone 
with a deep glow. The glow was more 
knowledgable than menacing. Thunstone 
saw' no sign of the effort to terrify which 
characterizes most aii’icks by things natural 
or supernatural. It thought' it had him, and 
that there would be hi tie or no trouble 
about doing what it wanted to do with him. 
Those flattened jaws opened, and he could 
see the inner bare bones of them. 

It slid out, out, thin and broad as a bath- 
mat. Tliunstone’s great hand fell on the 
back of a chair, and he brought this forward, 
as a trainer offers a cliair to a truculent lion 
in a cage. The teeth closed on a hardwood 
leg and bit off the tip of it like a bit of 
celery. A little waggle of the flat muzzle 
cleared away the splinters. With a sort of 
protozoic surge, it began to clear of the 
chink under the floor. Its forepart sTv'dled 



as if to regain its skull-shape, a shape that 
would be larger tlaan a bushel. 

There was a door behind Thunstone, a 
door to the outer corridor; but Thunstone 
does not run from evil. He knows that 
others have turned their backs, and what has 
happened to tlaose others. He tossed the 
whole chair for the teeth to catch and man- 
gle, dropped back as far as the closet and 
made a quick snatching motion inside for 
an ebony cane. With this he thrust, swords- 
manslike, at the enemy, and thought it 
cliecked — perhaps because the ferrule of the 
stick was of silver, abhorrent to black magic. 
He gained a moment to grab with his other 
hands at the bookshelf and throw books 
like stones at the thing. 

T hose were valuable books, some of 
them irreplacable, others old friends that 
had nourished his mind and stood his allies 
in moments almost as unlucky as this. 
Thunstone felt like cursing as the skull, now 
lifting itself three-dimensional against the 
bedroom door, caught in its mouth and 
ripped to shreds a first edition of Thomp 
son’s Mysteries and Secrets of Magic. 
Spence’s heavy Encyclopedia of Occultism, 
enough to smash a skull, bounced jmpo- 
tently from the misshapen brain-case. The 
thing was lifting now, lifting into the air 
in a slow, languid flight, like a filling bal- 
loon, to drift toward him. Its jaw dropped, 
exposing a moutlr that could take his head 
at one gulp. 

"Not this time!” Thunstone defied it, in 
a voice' he wished' w’as not so hysterical, and 
threw yet another book. This came open 
as it flew through the air, smiting the nose- 
less face and dropping on its back, wide- 
spread, just in front. 

The skull, too, dropped back and dov.m. 
Thunstone could have sv/orn that its face- 
bones writhed, like frightened flesh. It 
seemed to turn away. 

He stood there, breathing as if from 
labors that had exhausted even his giant 
body, and saw it sag, spread, flatten. It 
wanted to creep back the v/ay it had come. 

"No!” he yelled at it again, and, stoop- 
ing, caught the edge of the carpet. Fran- 
tically he bundled the skull an-.i the book 
together. 

It took both his brawny hands h) hold 



so 



WEIRD TALES 



Jiat package together, for what was inside 
ihrasiied and churned as convulsively as a 
great cat in a bag. Thunstone hung on, it 
was all he could do, and brought his thick 
knee into play, bearing down. That skull 
had grown so large and abhorrent — ^but not 
quite to bushel size. It was more pumpkin 
size now — or did he imagine it was like a 
football, the size of an ordinary human 
head.^ It still strove and w'allowed, strain- 
ing for freedom. A human head of those 
dimensions would be dwarfed, really; per- 
haps a child’s; perhaps a monkey’s. 

"It’s shrinking,’’ he growded exultantly. 
"Trying to get out that way.” 

Now it did not struggle at ail, or it was 
roo small to make its struggles felt. Thun- 
stone clung to his improvised trap, count- 
ing to thirty, and dared to let the fabric 
fall open. 

The skull was gone. The blinding bright 
jewel was there, in a fold of the rug as 
far removed as possible from the still open 
oook. 

Thunstone smiled. Deliberately and with 
ill his stren^i, he set his heel upon the 
glow and ground down. He felt disinte- 
gration, as of very old fire-weakened brick. 
A whiff of bad odor came up, and was gone. 
The glow departed, and w'hen he took away 
his foot, there was a blood-stain and nothing 
more. 

Breathing deeply once again, Thunstone 
picked up the book. It was his Egyptian 
Secrets that, earlier in the day, had shown 
him a way to another victory. By some 
chance it had fallen open to the sixty-second 
page: 

A Most Excellent Erotectiori 
Write the following letters upon a 

scrap of paper: 

Thunstone read them, a passage so sea- 



soned with holy names that it might have 
been a prayer instead of a spell. And, 
finally: 

Only carry the paper with you; and 
you will then perceive that no enchant- 
ment can remain in the room with you. 

Thunstone closed the book, then reopened 
it to the quaint- preface which promised 
that "to him who properly esteems and 
values this book, and never abuses its teach- 
ings, will not only be granted the usefulness 
of its contents, but he will also attain ever- 
lasting joy and blessing.” The thought 
came that to some scholars such tomes of 
power were considered in themselves to be 
evil. But is not every weapon what the 
wielder makes it.^ He decided to disallow 
the element of chance in the falling open 
of Egyptian Secrets to the very passage that 
had won his late struggle. 

Someone was knocking at the door. 
Thunstone started violently, then recovered 
himself. 

"Yes.?” 

"Room service, Mr. Thunstone. You 
said you’d be dining in your suite?” 

"Not for three-quarters of an hour,” said 
Thunstone. "I’ll telephone down.” 

"Right.” The man outside was walking 
away. 

Thunstone poured himself a drink from a 
bottle of brandy. It tingled in his throat. 
Then he stripped off his jacicet, rolled tlie 
sleeves back from his broad forearms, and 
from the bathroom fetched a broom, towels 
and a pail of water. 

Beginning the task of cleaning his own 
room, he whistled a tune to himself, a tune 
old and cheerful. And when he had fin- 
ished whistling it, he whistled it all over 
again. He had never felt better in his life. 





By CHARLES KING 



Home! 



OME forth Ahrhnanes . . . come 
a forth Zatniel , , . come forth 

Sammael . . . come forth 

Belial. . . 

On and on droned the emotionless voice 
that seemed to have been spawned from 



some dank sepulchre. The invocation to the 
Dark Angel continued, punctuated only by 
the occasional sharp intakes of breath of 
the straining spectators. 

“Come forth Abaddon . . . come form 
ApoUyon . . . come forth — ” and someoce 



Heading by BORIS DOLGOV 



It takes more than a little time to shake off preciously preserved 
witch fancies and superstitions 



8X 



82 



WEIRD TALES 



screamed weakl7 as a dim, formless shape 
whisked over us for an instant, and was 
gone. 

Another shape, and stiii another, fled 
noiselessly over our heads. The short moans 
that had escaped the assemblage at odd in- 
tervals now became more frequent . . . 
swelled into a gruesome counterpoint to the 
vocal mad melody of the Invocator. 

Faster and faster slewed the shapes above 
us . . . sharper and sharper grew the uncon- 
trolled crises about me . . . and then my flash- 
light sent its inquisitive beam along the 
floor. In that one instant I’d seen enough. 
My free hand crept toward the wall-switch 
above me and flicked it. Bathed in yellow 
light, the room revealed its occupants. 

A tight, strained group that looked 
straight ahead with unseeing eyes. Almost 
tangible in its blanketing effect, the Terror 
of just a moment ago still clung heavily to 
them. Only the Invocator seemed unchained 
by the spell she’d invoked. Her eyes were 
fixed upon me . . , glaring with anger. So I 
spoke quickly: 

"Show’s over, folks . . . another phony 
exposed!” 

With a screech the old hell-cat bounded 
across the floor. I caught her in time to keep 
her raking nails from exploring my face. 

"Stop sitting around like fools! Take a 
look underneath that table!” 

My sharp command seemed to release the 
others from their lethargy. As in a dream 
they arose and wandered loosely over to the 
table at which the squalling, old Invocator 
had been sitting. 

"Well? What do you see?” 

One shocked voice made answer; "Raised 
buttons on the floor — ” 

"Exactly,” and here I had to tighten my 
grip on the furious old woman whose spittle 
was running down her cursing mouth, "Ex- 
actly! 'Those buttons controlled the move- 
ments of the shapes that so frightened you. 
They were suspended from wires. . . .” 
"But . . . but . . .” 

"I know You’re wondering about the 
real, unmistakable terror that gripped you 
— that paralyzed you. You were sold a very 
solid bill of' goods.” 

"What do you mean?” 

"Look ac it this way,” I explained. "This 
old crone. I’m still holding, represents her- 



self as a Witch; claims to have direct contact 
with those of the Nether World. For a fee 
she promises to prove same. Well, whether 
you like it or not, you are half-inclined to 
believe her — maybe because of the delicious 
terror involved . . . Ouch!” 

I WIPED away the trickle of blood from 
the side of my cheek where the old she- 
devil had finally succeeded in sideswiping 
me. I thrust her away from me, threw her a 
few lira notes, and swept my friends out of 
the house. Later, in my own diggings, we 
dragged out some of the local vino and gave 
it a good play. I was at the window admir- 
ing the awesome grandeur of the brooding 
Alps when a voice recalled me to my duties 
as spook-buster. 

"Carry on with your explanation, Jules. 
You were saying that we half-invited the old 
girl’s atmosphere — and that we half-believed 
her before she started.” 

"Well, didn’t you? Didn’t the group of 
you insist on trotting over for a seance, even 
though I’d warned you that there are no such 
things as ghosts, succuba, wraiths, lemures 
or anything else that fake mediums batten 
on. . . .” 

"But, Jules — ” 

"Let me finish. All of you know that I’ve 
been traipsing around the world for years 
exposing just such quackery as we sat 
through tonight. As a kid I got too damn 
many scares in the small Pennsylvania Dutch 
town where I was born. I spent too many 
sleepless nights, scared almost to death, be- 
cause some old fool filled my ears with mys- 
tico nonsense. ...” 

"So you devoted yourself to the breaking 
down of all those who claim to knoiv that 
such things exist. You’ve incessantly chased 
down rumors from Translyvania to Trans- 
jordania . . . but we know all that — ” 
"Then why don’t you see for yourself that 
people will never be free of mumbo-jumbo 
• — and those crooks who exploit it — if you 
calmly and completely fall for as amateurish 
a setting of auto-suggestion and hocus-pocus 
as w'e all saw performed for us tonight?” 
Hot? You’re darn right I was hot. In my 
own way I’d made some sort of reputation in 
my capacity as witcli-brealcer, or anything 
else you want to call me. My monographs on 
the subject had been widely translated and 



WELCOME HOMEr 



83 



distributed. And now, in Ital7 where I’d 
gone to vacation with a few friends, I’d had 
to work just as hard to convince these sup- 
posedly intellectual people as those ancient 
die-hards, who still buried rinds, animal 
hearts, and other assorted garbage, under a 
full moon. Was all my work for nothing? 
Were people so perverse or stupid that they 
needed individual convincing? It was all 
very disappointing. . . . 

"Don’t take it so hard, Jules. We believe 
you. Really, we do. It’s just that . . .’’ 

"Cut it,” I grunted, "I’m tired of people 
telling me tlrat it takes a little time to shake 
off preciously preserved fancies and super- 
stitions. It’s nothing more than romantic 
foolishness — kid stuff.” 

L ater . . . when I was alone ... I was 
sorry for the tirade I’d subjected my 
friends to. After all, they were no worse 
tlian others. Gullible, always on the lookout 
for new thrills, ready to be intimidated and 
fleeced— but that was their business. What I 
needed was a vacation from the sorry busi- 
ness I’d selected as my life work. I toyed 
with the idea until I’d convinced myself. I 
hadn’t been home since my Mother had 
died, some ten years before. So I cabled my 
Father. 

The notion conceived, the plan was put 
into action. It took very little time to malce 
my good-bys, pack my bags and board a 
steamer homeward. The trip was unevent- 
ful, most of my time being spent at the 
ship’s bar where the bartender was properly 
congenial and silent by turn. 

And then the slow, majestic passage, ac- 
companied by hootings, whistles and bravely 
grunting tugs as we eased past the Statue of 
Liberty toward a Manhattan pier. By this 
time I was so eager for my long unseen 
Father and home town, that I stopped for 
just one quickie at the Hotel Pennsylvania 
bar and then made for the Pennsylvania 
Station itself just a few yards away. 

All through the night my thoughts kept in 
rhythm with the clacking wheels. I was too 
excited to sleep. Yes, the nearer I got to the 
little Pennsylvania Dutch town that had 
been my home, the more I realized how I 
needed its slow pace, its drowsy quiet. 

Hours of patience were rewarded by the 
coming of morning. I was too pent up to 



eat . . . just made a quick toilet and waited. 
And then, and then at long last, the great 
chain of cars slid into my station. I tossed 
my bags onto the siding and vaulted after 
them. 

I had sent a telegram ahead to my 
Father, but he wasn’t at the station. I re- 
flected that the years were catdiing up with 
him and he was probably still in bed. In that 
case, I thought, it would be better to eat at 
the local hotel and disturb the old man’s re- 
pose as little as possible. It would also give 
me a welcome chance to look about the town 
and see if it had changed. 

The walk to the single hotel the town 
boasted afforded me great happiness. I now 
knew my stay would be one of maundering 
peace . . . for everything was the same. There 
were the sleepy little stores, companionably 
slumbering with their proprietors through 
the years . . . there were the frugal and 
pious Amish and Mennonites bringing their 
farm wares to the Square. , . . 

^^^OOD morning to ye, stranger,” plac- 

vJT idly announced the wrinlded hotel 
clerk. 

"Good morning to you, too — but I am not 
a stranger.” 

Wrinkles dissolved, coagulated and then 
made room for additional ones as the 
weighty problem was wrestled with. Then, 
"No . . . cannot say I recall ye. ...” 

"Shame on you,” I scolded, "has Jules 
Swartz’ son changed so much in ten years 
that his old friends no longer know him?” 

It is nice to be remembered by acquaint- 
ances of the past ... I confess it does pleas- 
ant things to the ego . . . but I was 
completely unprepared for what follow’ed. 

"You . . . you are redly Jules Svcartz' 
son?” 

"That is v.'hat I have just told,)mu.” 

"You haven’t been home since your 
Mother died?” 

"That is also true.” 

The old man was so intent on getting his 
words out that he practically stuttered them : 
"And . . . and didn’t ye leave tov/n at an 
early age?” 

This was getting monotonous. I don’t 
usually take to questions about my doings. 
But, I reflected, there was certainly no harm 
in answering the garrulous old man. It 



84 



WEIRD TALES 



would, possibly, give him some welcome 
gossip to retail during the day. 

“Yes, I left home at an early age, coming 
back just once in a while for visits. . . .” 

“And d’ye remember what your Mother 
died of?” 

Now I was downright annoyed. So I de- 
termined to rufSe the feathers of tliis talka- 
tive old male hem "You probably know that 
better than I do myself, my inquisitive host. 
I was in Mexico when I got the letter about 
her succumbing to heart failure. But, of 
course, if you know better. . . 

My obvious sarcasm was just as obviously 
wasted. Taught me a good lesson, too. This 
was the last time I’d ever bandy words with 
hotel clerks grown moronic with age. His 
next words were the convincer; 

“Maybe I do know better . . . maybe I 
do. ...” 

'That was quite enough. Bags in hand, I 
swung out the front doqr and away before 
my homecoming could be soured by a loqua- 
cious old loon. The good, clean air reminded 
me that I was hungry and my eye caught a 
red-painted combination bar and lunchroom 
at the further corner. I’d never seen it be- 
fore. Definitely an innovation in town. 

It was clean enough inside, and I was 
soon wolfing down a generous platter of 
eggs and bacon. 'The coffee was surprisingly 
good and I said as much to the lone man 
running the place. He grinned. 

“Glad somebody around here appreciates 
the stuff — most’ve them complain it’s too 
strong.” 

“That’s the way I like it.” 

“Me, too, stranger.” 

“I’m not exactly a stranger. That is, I was 
born in this town and I’m returning to visit 
my Father.” 

“That’s nice. Who is he?” 

“Jules Swartz. I’ve the same name. . . 
’’Oh!” 

H alfway to my mouth the coffee-cup 
suddenly halfted. A few drops spilled 
onto the counter. 'Then, slowly, carefully, I 
set the cup down. That “Oh” had been too 
sharply accented; too full of provocative 
meaning. And I was getting more than a 
little weary of having people shy in a star- 
tled way at mention of my Father or myself. 
“Tell me,” and I was making my voice as 



steady as possible, “just why everybody, so 
far, acts as if there were a bad smell around 
when I mentioned Jules Swartz.” 

He carefully wiped the counter with a 
damp rag before he spoke. It was easy to see 
that he v/as a type who thought long and 
hard before answering a question which 
might prove serious. He was marshalling his 
words. 

Then: 

“I haven’t been in this town long, Str — 
uh — Mr. Swartz. Personally, I don’t know 
anything.” 

“But you’ve heard, eh?” 

“Yeah . . . I’ve heard.” 

"What?” 

“Oh, you know how folks rattle along in 
a town like this. . . .” 

“I ought to know. That was what orig- 
inally made me run away. Pennsylvania 
Dutch and morbid mysticism seem to make 
a steady team. . . .” 

"That’s kind of what I mean, Mr. Swartz. 
With the job I got, and with people in and 
out of here all the time, I just can’t help 
hearing things — ^picking things up.” 

"Tell me.” 

“Remember it ain’t what I say. . . .” 
Impatience clawed at me. “I know ... I 
know . . . you’re only repeating what you’ve 
heard. ...” 

“That’s right.” 

I could have cheerfully throttled him. 
"Go on — ” 

And then it came. 

“People keep disappearin’!” 

“Really? You mean townspeople?” 
“Nope. People passin’ through. Sales- 
men, tourists and such. . . .” 

“But what has that got to do with my 
Dad?” 

“Well . . , there was your Mother 
too " 

He jumped back, slamming himself 
against the wall back of the counter, as my 
hand curved toward him. 

“Hey! I’m only repeatin’ what you tvanted 
me to tell you!” 

I listened to the violent pumping of my 
heart; looked at my trembling hand. "Better 
set up a drink. No. Make it a couple — one 
for each of us." 

Wordless, he splashed a couple of ryes 
into tumblers. We soundlessly toasted each 



'WELCOME HOMEr 



85 



other and then threw the fiery stuff down 
fast. 

"Let’s kill another round!” 

"I guess we better had, Mr. Swartz.” 
Soothed by the strong liquor I lit a ciga- 
rette, and was pleased to see that my hands 
were almost normal again. "Go on ... I 
may as well hear all of it.” 

He looked at me carefully, and then, ap- 
parently reassured by what he saw, "Well, 
folks claim that your Mother didn’t die of 
heart failure. ...” 

"What do they claim?” 

"They say— uh — she knocked herself 
off!” 

^'Suicide?” 

"Yeah.” 

"But . . . but why?” 

"There was those people supposed to 
have disappeared — ” 

I gripped the counter edge until my fin- 
gers hurt badly. "Man! Stop torturing me! 
What about those people?” 

"They say . . . I hear . . . those folks were 
last seen at your house!” 

I NSUFFERABLE beasts! Ignorant, vi- 
cious, scandal -mongering savages! The 
same tongues, pregnant with old-world fear 
and prejudice, that had driven me to leave 
the town, had slain my saintly Mother. 
Those tongues, with the precision of prob- 
ing knives, had dug her grave and then 
plagued her into it. I had run away from 
it. She had stayed, fought her battle . . . 
and lost. 

"I . . . I’m sorry, Mr. Swartz.” 

"They . . . my parents . . . were still tak- 
ing in tourists, weren’t they?” 

"Yeah. People that couldn’t find accom- 
modations at the hotel used to go to your 
place. Seemed to be an agreement between 
the hotel and your folks.” 

There alv/ays had been. The good ground 
provides food, but money is always scarce to 
a small-town farmer. We’d taken in many 
boarders and transients in the past. The 
extra few dollars had always been more than 
welcome. 

"But the hotel stopped sendin’ people 
over some time ago.” 

I awoke from my perusal of the past. 
Those words meant we v/ere now getting to 
the heart of the matter. 



"You mean . , . after my Mother died?” 
"No — before. It was soon after the hotel 
owner told your folks that it ... it hap- 
pened.” 

"How . . . how is my Father?” 

He coughed slightly. "Haven’t seen much 
of him, lately.” 

"You rnean since my Mother . . .” 

"Yeah.” 

That was why the broken-hearted old man 
hadn’t met me at the station. He’d been too 
proud to run the cruel gauntlet of eyes and 
tongues that would inevitably follow him; 
and too kind to include my company in his 
and force me to share his sad sorrow. It had 
happened anyway. My informant’s voice 
rode into my reverie again. 

"I’m a sort of a Johnny-come-Iately in this 
town, m.yself. Don’t hold with the way peo- 
ple think. ...” 

It was easy to see that he was embarrassed. 
With true decency, he didn’t want to in- 
trude. I made it easier for him: "I certainly 
agree v/ith you, my friend.” 

He brightened a little, at that. “What I 
mean is I always Hired your people. When- 
ever they came in here for a bite to eat they 
were nice to me . . . polite . . . lots politer 
than the rest. ...” 

I nearly cried at that. In his honest, 
straight-forward way he wanted to help. I 
motioned h i m to continue. 

"You’re the son,” he blurted red-faced, 
“maybe there’s somethin’ you can do. Your 
Mother’s gone, but your Father has a right 
to live out his days in peace.” 

There was only one thing to do, and I did 
it. I shook his hand in mine. The sort of 
handshake that goes on between two men 
v/ho would be shamed by spoken v/ords of 
gratitude, and who must express themselves 
in silent fashion. 

I certainly could do something. This was, 
after all, the job that I w'as used to doing . . , 
had been doing. I’d succeeded in laying 
macabre myths lov/ all over the v/orld; had 
convinced divers people, certainly as hard- 
headed and opinionated as lived in this 
tov/n, of the intellectual futility of their 
basically banal beliefs. Yes . . . this was in- 
deed my job; to help my Mother rest in 
peace, and my Fa'dier live in peace. 

"■'^ffiere is your telephone?” 

He pointed to the enclosed booth in the 



86 



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corner. I changed a couple of bills for a 
handful of silver. My call to New York 
went through rapidly and a few minutes was 
all I needed. There was delighted agreement 
on the other side. I hung up feeling in- 
effably better. 

"Thanks again," I mentioned on my way 
out, "you’ve been very good to me; helped a 
great deal.” 

I DECIDED to walk out to my Father’s 
place. It wasn’t very far . . . and would 
also keep me from getting into any more 
cankerous conversation with the spectre- 
stricken villagers. Peace closed in upon me 
as I strode along. The grass along the wind- 
ing dirt road smelled sweetly, and the great, 
gnarled trees dropped their heavy-laden 
branches as if in benediction. It wasn’t long 
after that I pushed open the small gate that 
led to the home that I’d been born in, and 
my Father before me. My first feeling was 
one of misgiving. Clearly, the place was 
going to seed. That it was unattended was 
given mute evidence by wildly sprouting 
weeds, and corn that was dying upon the 
stalk. Dark depression threatened my new- 
found peace. 

Outside the house, I forbore entering for 
a moment. I wanted to compose myself in 
spirit as well as in countenance. This was 
done . . . and I entered. 

'The creaking rocking-chair in the corner 
halted its steady motion. 

"Welcome home, son.” 

I stood still for the space of a breath, then 
rushed forward. My cheeks were wet as my 
arms went around the old man. His body 
that had been so strong . . . so erect . . . now 
bent and thin; his voice . . . now so . . . weak 
. . . lonely. . . . 

"Father. You look grand!” 

"Do I, son?” He smiled. A smile so sad 
that I threw my plan of slow attack to the 
winds. 

"Don’t you worry, Father. I heard enough 
in town, this morning, to know how you’ve 
been pilloried and wronged. And I’m 

goipg • • •” . ■ . 

"Please.” His thin, blue-veined hand 
moved slowly in protest, "Please, son, I 
would rather forget.” 

"Don’t worry. I’m not thinking of any 
nonsensical revenge. Tm only interested in 



WELCOME HOME! 



restoring your good name to the community 
that should be proud of having you one of 
them; and, incidentally, to forestall the fu- 
ture blighting of anyone’s life through mali- 
ciousness and godless stupidity.” 

“No, my boy . . . you mustn’t.” 

"But—” 

An angry red streaked the old man’s worn 
face. His fists clenched , . . unclenched. . . . 
"I say you mustn’t!” 

Without conceit, the old man must have 
known of my reputation in my chosen field. 
Surely my Mother must have shown him the 
letters and newspaper clippings I’d sent to 
her. I would have liked to accede to bis ap- 
parently earnest wish, but . . . 

“It’s too late. Father.” 

"Too late?” 

"Yes. I’ve already telephoned friends of 
mine — a married couple — to come up here 
and help me disprove this nonsense.” 

His voice was so low that I could hardly 
catch them. “Too . . . late. . . .” 

"But surely,” I hurried on, "you must 
realize that it’s not only for your good . . . 
there are countless others destined to be un- 
fairly persecuted unless this thing is nipped 
short.” 

M y worry changed almost to joy as, 
for the first time, a peacefulness came 
into his face. Well, no. Not a peacefulness, 
precisely. Rather, a look of absolute relaxa- 
tion. As if tlie tormenting burden had 
slipped off his thin shoulders. 

"Are they good friends of your’s?” 

This was something that I could sink my 
teeth into: “Yes, Father, the very best. They 
are literary people, both well-known and 
respected writers. Their magazine articles 
are widely read, and if they write the truth 
about this place — a truth which I am going 
to unalterably establisli — then good old 
common sense will, once and for all, take 
the place of haunted fear.” 

He looked at me a while, the effect of 
complete relaxation more and more appar- 
ent. 

“Yes ... it has to be.” 

I locked my arm in his. "Come. Let us 
explore the old place. It’s been too long 
since I’ve seen it.” 

“Too long.” 

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so many years. Indeed, the saddening events 
of the morning proved, beyond doubt, that I 
had been away too long. It hadn’t been right 
to let the old man forage for himself . . . 
stand alone before the slings and arrows. . . . 

The rooms were the unmistakable stamp 
of not having been lived in. They had no 
welcoming warmth, gave off no aura save 
loneliness. I forced some brightness into my 
voice; "How about a peek into the attic. 
Father. What old keepsakes have you added 
since last time.?” 

"I’d rather we didn’t go there, son.” 

Something stirred inside me. "Why?” 

"Your Mother’s things are up there. I . . . 
I don’t . . .” 

Relief surged through in gusty waves. 
"Then I’ll go alone. Please believe me. I 
understand.” 

How the old man must have loved her. 
Alone in the attic, I looked about at the 
pictures, clothes, needlework ... in fact, 
anything the house contained that was repre- 
sentative of my Mother was before me. And 
everything was clean, dusted, showing the 
loving attention of his hands that were tire- 
less in their devotion. Only for himself he 
no longer cared. But all that would change. 
After my friends and myself had exploded 
the rotten bubble that hovered over this 
town I would stay with my Father, leave 
him no more. Together we would . . . and 
I shuddered from head to toe as a reedy 
scream tore through the house and into my 
heart. 

I clattered into the hall and took the stairs 
several at a time in a wild descent to the 
floor below. But someone else had preceded 
me down those same stairs. He lay at the 
foot of them, on his stomach, but his neclc so 
badly cracked and twisted that his sightless 
eyes stared right up into mine. My Father. 

W ITHIN an hour I had the body re- 
moved to the undertaker parlor. In no 
uncertain terms I let the gaping fools know 
that it was accidental death. It had been too 
easy to probe into their miserable minds and 
see the word "suicide” framed therein. So 
I spoke first, and then shouldered my way 
past the brutish, inquisitive faces into the 
open air. 

Back I went, to the farm, to await the 
guests who could help no longer,. 



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Wait! But they could! After the fervent 
protestations I’d made to my poor Father I’d 
be less than a man not to try to help the 
others I’d mentioned. Others, who were 
doomed to lives blighted by whispers unless 
I ripped out the roots of fecund unreason. 

So I waited. 

Steps coming up the porch warned me 
that my friends had arrived. As I rose to my 
feet I controlled my features, but, one look 
at theirs, told me they’d already been ap- 
prised of what happened. Wagging tongues 
. . . wagging tongues . . . ceaseless ... re- 
morseless. . . . 

Lila drew my head down to her’s and 
kissed me. Her calm, lovely voice soothed 
me, lulled me: 

“We were told, Jules, by the man who 
taxied us up here.” 

Jim didn’t say anything for the moment. 
Fle just gripped my hand, letting his feeling 
friendship run strong and true from him to 
me. 

They were my friends. My best friends. 

Later, we were sitting and smoking about 
the lire I’d stirred in the grate. None of us 
had felt very hungry, just managed to swal- 
low a few mouthfuls. I’d told them the 
whole sorry story and, more and more, had 
revelled in the drought that Providence had 
blessed me with sudr wonderfuly commiser- 
ate friendship, 

"You’re absolutely right, Jules,” stated 
Lila, "we must go through with your plan.” 

Jim had also given his opinion in his 
slow, thoughtful way. "Lila is quite right, 
Jules. What you are going to do is fine in 
concept and tremendously thoughtful in re- 
gard to humanity. You’re a good man.” 

How I warmed to them. "Just a couple of 
nights of sleeping here will be quite enough 
to turn the trick. And, speaking of sleeping, 
it’s time you were off. You’ll find your room 
upstairs. ...” 

"How about you, Jules?” 

"I’ll be along directly.” 

A lone, I sat and brooded. Recalled 
events from my childhood; thought of 
my dear Mother and Father. The hours sped 
by silently and imnoticed. It was a casual 
look at my wrist-watch that told me how 
late it was. Midnight. 

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back of the mystery . . . and logically tx- 
plained what had transpired. 

The hall-mirror was cobwebbed and un- 
clean. I turned away and sat down before 
the fire again. Once again I let my thoughts 
range into the past. Now, however, events 
explained themselves v/ith astonishing clar- 
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My Mother haJ. committed suicide. She, 
too, had found oiit and had been unable to 
survive her knowledge. 

My Father? Well, I now understood — too 
well — v/hy he’d asked if my friends were 
good friends. I understood why he’d par- 
rotted the words "too late” after me. Not 
once . . . but twice. 

And why the old man had repeated "too 
long” after me. His mea.ning had been 
diametrically different from mine. He’d 
striven . . . you can’t take it away from him 
. . . he’d striven to keep the secret from me. 
But I had forced him . . . forced him. . . . 

Then, v/hen he saw that it was indeed 
"too late” and "too long,” he’d relaxed and 
let his burden slide from him ... to me. 

Yes ... he, too, had committed suicide. 
It was the only thing to do. He couldn’t 
face me once I had found out the truth. 
This, also, I well understood. 

Well, it was time, and I v/as being called, 
so I got up. I took another look at the 
grime-covered mirror, well aware of what it 
would tell me. My trained mind might re- 
ject it, but my eyes — and my ego — couldn’tl 

I looked down at my hands, the fingers of 
which had extended into serpentine length 
and which writhed and twisted with com- 
plete disregard for bone structure. I looked 
at the black tufts of hair that dotted them. I 
looked at my face . . . my face . . . which 
had become abnormally larger . . . w'hich 
had become pitted with tiny round pools of 
excrescence ... at the double rows of 
hooked teeth that pushed themselves a dis- 
tance past my livid lips. . . . 

I was hungry. 

I stalked silently up the stairs, until I 
came to the closed door behind which my 
friends were sleeping. I didn’t touch the 
knob. I knew I didn’t have to. I effortlessly 
passed through the door, itself, and began 
enjoying my Father’s heritage. . . . 





Arisham House 

P erhaps we are more than ordinarily en- 
thusiastic about the various fine fantasy vol- 
umes coming out of Arkham House because 
many of the collected stories first appeared in 
Weird Tales. But judged by any standards 
such books as Donald Wandrei’s "The Eye and 
the Finger,” Dr. Henry Whitehead’s "Jumbee,” 
C. A. Smith’s "Lost Worlds,” and H. P. Love- 
craft’s "Marginalia” make for fine entertain- 
ment. We enjoyed them as we know did thou- 
sands of others. 

The history and growtli of Arkham House, 
creation of August Derleth and Donald Wan- 
drei, makes an interesting record. Starting out 
as an idea and a name — "Arkham” from H. P. 
Lovecraft’s name for Salem in his Mythos tales 
— Arkham House has weathered some tough 
early sledding, paper-limitation snags (don’t we 
know!) and the loss of co-director Don Wan- 
drei to the Army, leaving "major-domo” Au- 
gust Derleth to carry on alone. 

Derleth is, as if you didn’t know, a fine and 
established writer of ever-increasing stature. 
Weird Tales values him not only as a true 
friend of long standing but as one of its best- 
known and best-liked contributors. Too, he is 
literary editor of one of the large mid-western 
papers, contributes regularly to a do 2 en "big- 
time” magazines besides turning out a couple of 
books a year. (He’s already written 30!) Still, 
despite these many commitments, he finds time 
to run Arkham House with its increasingly 
ambitious program . . . and incidentally, he does 
all editing, proofreading and cataloging on the 
books himself! 

We find that Arkham House plans for 1945 
line up like this. In the current year the 
following will be published: "Something 

Near,” by August Derleth; "The Opener of the 
Way,” by Robert Bloch; "Witch House,” by 




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Evangeline Walton; “The Hounds of Tinda- 
los,” by Frank Belknap Long, and probably 
one omnibus. Farther anthologies — like the fine 
"Sleep No More,” etc., collected and edited by 
August Derleth — are now scheduled to go to 
Farrar & Rinehart. 

We feel we speak for the many lovers of 
bizarre, eerie and extraordinary fiction when we 
congratulate August Derleth on Arkham House 
and the work it is doing. Arkham, we think, 
deserves every success in payment for the pleas- 
ure it has brought and contemplates bringing 
to the thousands of "weird-tale” enthusiasts. 

“New Oz Just Ain’t . . . Yet!” 

I N THE March Eyrie columns Weird Tales 
printed a letter by Jack Snow in which he 
stated that a nev/ Oz book he had authored was 
"now* published.” 

Now Mr. Snow is quick to write us, with 
modesty becoming an author, that he really 
didn’t expect his story "Second Childhood” 
and its accompanying Eyrie notes to appear 
for some time. (But you can’t keep a good 
yarn dov/n. Jack!) Hence the phrase "now 
published.” 

Snow wants us to know tliat his "The Mag- 
ical Mimics in Oz” will not be published 
until later, due to paper restrictions and pre- 
vailing conditions. 

Friday Superstition 

S OME time ago when Roger S. Vreeland 
("A Sip With Satan” . . March Weird 

Tales) was in the office we got into an en- 
thusiastic disaission with him about the origin 
of superstitions; particularly the one concern- 
ing Friday. Not so long afterward he sent us 
an "investigation” of the whole matter-^show- 
ing what authors do with therriselves when 
they’re not authoring! Here it is. But if you 



READERS’ VOTE 

THE MAN WHO CRIED THE ULTIMATE 
"WOLF!" PARADOX 

THE SHINING LAND THE MUSIC BOX FROM 
THE V/ATCKERS HELL 

THE LEGEND Or 223 BLOOD FROM A STONE 

THE LOST DAY WELCOME HOME 

Here’s a list of nine stories in this issue. Won’t 
yon let ns know which three you eonsirter the 
be.st. Just place the numbers; 1, 2, and 3 re- 
spectively against your three favorite tales — 
then clip it out and mail it in to us. 

WEIRD TALES 

9 Rockefeller Plaza New York City 






THE EYRIE 



93 



still run into some tough luck next Friday the 
15di, don’t biame us! 

Friday is a bad-luck day. That’s- a super- 
stition that everyone knows, and it goes back 
to the dimmest days of recorded history al- 
though no one has been able to place a finger 
on the exact origin. The erudite Encyclopedia 
Britannka sumi-narily dismisses the matter thus : 
"The ill-luck associated with the day arose from 
the connection with the Crucifixion.” 

Other sources indicate, however, that the 
paths leading into antiquity are fourfold. They 
lead (1) to the ancient Teuton forests; (2) 
among the wilds of Scandinavia; (3) to papal 
and thence pagan Rome; and (4) to the Far 
East. 

Chamber’s Encyclopedia: "Friday takes its 
name from the goddess Frigga, wife of Odin, 
to whom it was consecrated. The word, how- 
ever, is often connected with Freyja (or Freya- 
R.S.V.), the goddess of love, to which notion 
the Latin name is due. . . . Almost everywhere 
within the range of Christendom, Friday is a 
day of proverbial ill-luck, in which it is not 
wise to put to sea, to marry, or commence any 
important undertaking. . , . Shipping statistics 
still (1901) show a smaller number of sail- 
ings upon that than upon any other day. It 
liiay be well for sailors to be reminded that 
Columbus both sailed and discovered land on 
Friday, and that the Pilgrim Fathers touched 
land on the same day.” 

Curiosities of Popular Customs— WiWhim S. 
Walsh. 1900; "It was the festival day of the 
Goddess Freya, the Northern Venus. The ill 
ludc whicli by popular superstition is still 
ascribed to projects or journeys undertaken on 
Friday is traceable to the fact that it was orig- 
inally regarded as sacred to the goddess, whose 
honor was held to be disregarded by all who, 
instead of participating in her festive worship, 
followed their own pursuits. On such Freya 
was supposed to bring ill fortune. The super- 
stition remained after the explanation had been 
forgotten. No doubt the fact that Friday is 
associated with the Passion of Christ and that it 
is a day of abstinence in the Catholic Church 
had much to do with keeping up the feeling.” 

A legend in many versions and from many 
places, in one form tells of an Isaac Harvey 
of Wilmington. He was a hard-headed, mat- 
ter-of-fact seafaring captain, and in order to 
end the Friday superstition he laid the keel 




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of a brig on a Friday; fitted her out on a Fri- 
day; named her 'Triday of Wilmington”; sent 
her out on a Friday under a Captain Friday. 
The ship was wrecked on the following Friday. 

The Book of Days: “The Friday supersti- 
tion cannot wholly be explained by the fact 
that it was ordained to be held a fast by the 
Christians of Rome. Some portions of its ma- 
leficent character is probably due to the char- 
acter of the Scandinavian Venus Freya, the wife 
of Odin, the goddess of fecundity. But we are 
met on the other hand by the fact that amongst 
the Bralimins of India a like superstitious aver- 
sion to Friday prevails. They say that 'on this 
day no business must be commenced.’ ” . . . 

Black Fridays 

I N THE United States: 

Sept. 24, 1869, and Sept. 19, 1873, on 
which financial panics occured. 

In England: 

Dec. 6, 1745, when news reached London 
that Charles Eduard, the Pretender, was at 
Derby v/ith the Highlanders; May 11, 1866, a 
financial panic started. 

Ripley, in his "Believe It, or Not,” says 
“Friday is the luckiest day in American his- 
tory.” He gives the following dates: 

Friday, Aug. 3, 1492 — Columbus sailed for 
America. 

Friday, Oct. 12, 1492 — Columbus discovered 
America. 

Friday, Nov. 22, 1493 — Columbus landed 
here again. 

Friday, June 12, 1494 — ^Mainland of South 
America discovered. 

Friday, Mar. 5, 1496 — Henry VII commis- 
sioned Cabot which resulted in the discovery 
of North America. 

Friday, Sept. 7, 1565 — Mendez founded St. 
Augustine, Fla., the oldest city in the U. S. 

Friday, Nov. 10, 1620 — Pilgrim Fathers 
landed in harbor of Provincetown. 

Friday, Feb. 22, 1732 — George Washington 
born. 

Friday, Oct. 17, 1777 — Burgoyne surren- 
dered at Saratoga. 

Friday, Sept. 19, 1781 — Cornwallis surren- 
dered at Yorktown. 

Here, hov/ever, is the most startling fact of 
all— though the interpretation might depend 
on one’s viewpoint; After consulting the World 
Almanac’s “Ready Reference Calendar,” I dis- 
cover that July 12, 1907, the day I was born, 
was Friday! Roger S. Vreeland 



THE EYRIE 



95 




9 Rockefeller 
Plaza, 

New York 20, 
N. Y. 



WRITE TO MARTIN WARE, SECRETARY 

• This is your club — a medium to help you 
get together with other fantasy and science-fiction 
fans. Readers wanted it — they wrote in telling 
us how much they would enjoy meeting others 
of similar tastes. 

• Membership is very simple: just drop a 
line, so that we can enroll you on the club 
roster, and publish your name and address in the 
magazine. 

® A membership card carrying the above de- 
sign — personal token of your fellowship with the 
weird and the fantastic — will be sent on request. 
(A stamped, addressed envelope should be en- 
closed.) 

iiimiiiiimiiimmiiiiiniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiitiiuiiiiiimii 



NEW MEMBERS 

Eobert Myers, 223 West 4th, Hutchinson, Kans. 

Paul E. Grand. Route 1, Maitland, Fla. 

Charles H. Hull. 419 Altos Ave., N. Sacramento, Calif. 
Flora Finley, 53 Barrow St., New York 14, N. Y. 

Alan Orlovitz, 301 Arlin^on St., San Francisco 12, 
Calif. 

Carl Peterson, 3542 Carroll Ave., Chicago 24, 111. 
Marjorie La Rue, 2245 South 6th Ave., Tuscon, Ariz. 
Marjorie Terry, 1044 South Sth Ave., Tuscon, Ariz. 
Shirley Frank, 800 Jackson St., Gary, Ind. 

Joy B. W. Yatt. Box 170, Mlcavillo, N. C. 

Paul Ronald Harlan, 5914 Park, Kansas City, Mo. 
Hamilton Love, 2507 West End, Nashville 5, Tenn. 
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Joseph Kruclier, 416 East 7Srd St.. New York 21, N. Y. 
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Que. 

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Ohio 

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Idalio 

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D. C- 

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City, N. Y. 

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Donald Lewis, 714 Church St., Dallas, Ore. 

Hugh D. Massey, 400 Lincoln PI., Brooklyn 17, N. Y. 
John B. McDevitt, 200 N. 31st Ave., Hattiesburg, Miss. 
Gloria Rickella, 1514 Drover St., Indianapolis, Ind. 

V. K, Mills, Box 461, Suisan City, Calif. 

Henry Martens, 219 East G6fcli St.. New York 21, N. Y. 
May MeCash, General Delivery, Sutherlin, Ore. 

H. I. Larsen, Box 747, Glenns Ferry, Idaho 



We" re sorry that lack of space prevents tbs Inclu- 
sion of the names of dl New Members. The rest 
will appear next issue. 




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152 W. ■:2T3d at, New York 18, R. V. 



DEPT. N 



Ho!!yv/ood 2S« Calif. 




me ROSICRUCIANS 

SAN JOSE (AMORC) CAUFORNIA 



Your Mind 



on Night Missions? 

A.RE YOU plagued by vague remembrances when 
you awaken? Do strange places and faces, recollections 
from your sleeping state, struggle for recognition in 
your mind? They are not necessarily the fantasies of 
dreams — they may be elements of ejqDcrienccs as actual ' 
as your daily existence. Tfbur consciousness— that which 
is you — is forever poised between two worlds. When , 
awake, it is harnessed — limited to what you see with 
your eyes, hear with your ears, etc. When asleep, your 
consciousness may be liberated to commune with the 
Infinite Intelligence. It can be given a mission to per- 
form. It can temm with inspiration, v/ith stupendous 
power for accomplishment that will regenerate yom life* 

Accept this FREE Book 

Demand to the psychological and mystical principhshehini 

these statements. Do not confuse tneredreatrisr/tth the faculty to 
extend your consciousness beyond the reaches of space and the 
borders of time. Your life is only as limited as you let fear and 
superstition make it Rise to tixemacter^ofyosxtnaturalfacultki. 
Let the Rosicruciaas, a worid-wide fraternity of thinking men 
and women (not a religion), tell you about these rational laws 
of self. Write today for a free copy of the "Mastery of Life.’Tt 
will explain how you may receive this unique knowledge. 

Address: Scribe M.L.S. 



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